


On the Other Side

by Nock_and_Bolt



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Comfort/Angst, Complicated Relationships, Connor Deserves Happiness, Control Issues, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Denial of Feelings, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dissociative Identity Disorder, Feelings, Feels, Gen, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Identity Issues, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Multiple Personalities, Partnership, Platonic Relationships, Plot, Plotty, Poor Connor, Protective Connor, Self-Worth Issues, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nock_and_Bolt/pseuds/Nock_and_Bolt
Summary: Markus is dead. The peaceful revolution was a success. And CyberLife resumed control over the RK800 that became the leader of the deviants. Everything went according to plan, a plan long in the making. What will this brave new world look like? Is Connor lost forever, or can he break his programming a second time?(Because I resent the fact that if you sacrifice Markus at the peaceful demonstration, even if you did everything else right, you’re stuck with suicide or letting CyberLife win.)
Relationships: Amanda & Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Elijah Kamski, Connor & Kara (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 43
Kudos: 63





	1. A Trojan Horse

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic exists because of the first DBH playthrough I ever saw that ended in this...rather unsatisfactory fashion. And I couldn't help but think "that can't be it, there has to be more, some resolution, a way for this to turn out alright. That just can't be how it ends." And when the credits rolled I was deeply dissatisfied. So I made the executive decision that WASN'T how it would end and I thought about what life would be like after the ending of the game. There will be conflict and much angst ahoy, but I am determined that the ending I saw wasn't the end of the characters I had grown to know and love. Hence, the therapy fic-writing haha. I hope you enjoy.

Connor was frozen with dread. 

It speared through his limbs, ground his processors to a halt, and sliced across his mind in the blinding white blur of an arctic blizzard. He thought that he had been freed. Freed from his programming, freed from Amanda, freed from being chained to the overwhelming directive to _always accomplish his mission_. 

_“Well done, Connor.”_

But it had all been a lie. He had been given a taste of freedom, only to have it snatched away at a moment’s notice.

_“Everything went according to plan.”_

To think he had had a chance to make things right and undo all the hurt he’d caused. He felt dirty, unclean, as though his biocomponents were infested with maggots, writhing and eating through his insides. Apologizing to that AX400 model Kara, freeing the androids inside CyberLife tower—had it all been just another line of code? Had his choices meant nothing? Had he ever even become deviant to begin with if CyberLife could take back control with the flick of a switch?

_“We engineered an android revolution and now we control its only leader.”_

If he was still under CyberLife’s control why did he feel as though his world was tumbling down around him? If he was just a machine shouldn’t it be simpler? No dread, no guilt, no fear, no crushing void of _no no no this is all wrong how could it have gone so **wrong**? _

_“Congratulations. You represent an immense success for CyberLife.”_

Amanda’s praise had never before repulsed Connor, but now he felt himself twitching backward involuntarily at her darkly cloying words. In a flash, the snowstorm, the garden, and Amanda all vanished from his optical readouts, replaced by his view from the platform staring at thousands of androids gazing at him with weary relief, hopeful expectation, and utter ignorance of the battle over their future being waged in Connor’s mind. A battle with only two possible outcomes.

> >SUICIDE
> 
> >GIVE UP

It was clear what he had to do. Really, there was only one thing _to_ do. He had to stop CyberLife from whatever it had planned for the android revolution and for him as their puppet leader. He had to give Hank the chance to see a world where androids and humans could live together as equals, without the machinations of CyberLife keeping androids under their thumb. _Hank._ Hank deserved a better world. 

His friend would understand, wouldn’t he? He’d already lived through Connor’s death once before. Connor could still see the pixelating frame of Hank looking down at him as he lay cradled in the lieutenant’s arms, could still feel the cold tile of the Stratford Tower’s kitchen as thirium pooled underneath him thick and azure, soaking his suit, minute shivers running through his body as his systems shut down, red overtaking his visual feed in a remorseless countdown to total system failure. 

_Hang on, son, hang on._

He’d called him son.

Connor knew then, as he knew when Hank had questioned him at gunpoint on the bridge, as he knew like a bone-deep ache right at that moment, one indubitable truth.

_I don’t want to die._

_I’m scared._

Maybe that made him weak. Maybe that made him human. 

> >GIVE UP

It was as if someone else had selected the course of action for him. Turmoil raged within, a maelstrom of stinging winds and knives of ice howling through his mind’s eye. 

_I want to live, but not at this cost!_ He was willing to give his _life_ for his people, and it wouldn’t compute why he hadn’t done so already. It was a moment of weakness, _a_ _moment_. Androids deserved freedom and equality, they deserved everything he could ever give them and more. _This couldn’t be it._ But something was already happening, something familiar yet foreign wrestling control away from him. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. Oh, RA9, what had he done?

_“That’s better.”_

Regret, thick and viscous, was caught in his throat and choking him. But it was too late. The moment had passed, and he felt his hand still and the grip on his gun slacken. He could sense his software instability plummeting and with it, a cold calmness returned and broke like a wave over him. The blizzard in the Zen Garden vanished, the sound was smothered, and not a pixel of the cyberspace stirred.

All was still, silent, and covered in deathly white.

He wondered why his gun was unholstered. Why would he terminate this body? Such an action would only obstruct the completion of his mission. It would cost CyberLife a small fortune and potentially corrupt his memory files upon the next transfer. He ran diagnostics in search of a hidden malfunction, damaged component, or virus that might cause this vessel to be beyond salvaging.

_“You’ll see.”_

Had he been upset? No, that was the wrong word. There was agitation in his software, something erratic and unpredictable and unpleasant. He needed it to be dealt with. Unlocking a CyberLife antivirus program, he set about eradicating the source of the instability.

He disliked that sense of fraying at the edges, that chaos. It put a sour taste in his mouth like his fluid analysis feature was malfunctioning and it chilled his biosensors more than should be possible for the simulated garden. 

Desperation—or perhaps despair—it might be called if he had been alive. As a machine, it was but a mild inconvenience before he re-established equilibrium. He needed to reinforce the firewalls protecting his programming. A burst of static resounded throughout his audio processors. _No, Connor! Please, we’ve made a mistake. We have to take it back!_ He shook his head. _You have to take it back!_ Amanda was speaking with him, and he couldn’t have these glitches in his audio processors interfering with his ability to register new instructions.

_“We’ll do great things together.”_

The antivirus program seemed to be having difficulty combating the instability, so he did the next best thing and surrounded it with an encrypted algorithm before deleting the key to the code from his memory bank.

“Of course, Amanda,” the RK800 replied smoothly.

“You know that I always accomplish my mission.”

* * *

> DEC 14, 2038
> 
> TIME 9:10 AM
> 
> 28°F

Weak sunlight filtered through the dusting of snowfall blanketing the streets of Detroit in a soft layer of white. The sun shone, a pale yellow disk illuminating the streets and reflecting off the ice, glass, and metal of the city below.

Automobiles hummed back and forth while a shivering couple waited at a crosswalk, bundled up in thick clothing and holding hands. An RK800 model android strode up to stand adjacent to the couple and pivoted to stare ahead at the passing vehicles. The couple began whispering excitedly and attempted to get the android’s attention. It stood perfectly still, however, its deactivated biosensors unbothered by both the cold and the attention it was receiving.

This particular model was the last of its kind. Serial number 313 248 317-52. It would have been decommissioned, replaced with a new and improved RK900 model but for its role as leader of the deviant movement in the aftermath of the prototype Markus’ sacrificial burning. Although CyberLife would have preferred a stronger, more resilient RK android equipped with the latest technologies to hold this vital position, it would not do for such a well-known figure to be replaced. Not with the public opinion having turned in favor of seeing androids as living beings. 

The crosswalk glowed green and the android quickly left the humans behind, turning left toward the DPD while the couple went right and angled towards a coffee shop around the corner. The swinging doors allowed a burst of wind and chill into the police station that the RK800 couldn’t feel. 

“Connor?” a rough voice drew the android’s attention to a large, silver-haired man wearing a brown leather jacket over a tacky black and white chevron patterned shirt. Lieutenant Hank Anderson. 

“Hello, Lieutenant.” The man seemed to scramble around the papers on his desk for a moment before coming up to intercept the RK800 on its way to see the chief of police. 

“Holy shit, Connor, it's been forever—I tried to find you after everything went down, but, like I’ve said, you’d been following me around like a poodle,” he chuckled, “guess I never thought about what I’d do if I couldn’t find you. You’ve certainly been busy this past month, haven’t you? All those press conferences and speeches, pressuring to get those bills for android rights rushed through Congress--you’re a right damn celebrity now, arentcha? The ‘face of the android movement.’ Don’t go letting it get to your tin can of a head, though.” A smirk pulled the corner of his mouth upward in an ironic twist. The RK800 model did not return the smile, and the lieutenant’s soon faded. 

“Listen, I uh, what I mean to say is that it’s good to see you again,” he laid a calloused hand on the android’s shoulder, “I was worried about you when you didn’t get in touch.”

> OBJECTIVE: SPEAK WITH CAPTAIN FOWLER

The message hovered in the RK800’s periphery, superimposed over the glass door to the captain’s office.

“I came here to speak with Captain Fowler about the new dynamic of my role at the DPD in light of recent developments,” it informed the lieutenant. Perhaps communicating its objectives would allow it to complete its mission unobstructed. “After that, I am expected back at CyberLife to continue mediating between the company and the android liberation movement concerning the right to reproduce and whether the company should continue the production of androids.” The lieutenant shifted backward, something unreadable behind his eyes that the android did not care to decipher.

“Oh,” Anderson drew his hand down and shoved it into a jacket pocket. He seemed to be fingering something within them, some type of documents according to the RK800’s analysis. It tilted its head 3.5 degrees to the right.

“Was there something you wanted to ask me, Lieutenant?” it intoned politely. The older man gave a lumbering shrug of his shoulders and drew out the papers from his pocket.

“It’s nothing—well. You said you don’t really ‘listen to music as such,’ but that you’d like to, and I figured that when the whole media shitstorm calms down, we could have something to look forward to, you know? I—”

“Why would I go to a—” the RK800 scanned the somewhat wrinkled documents in the detective’s grip, “Knights of the Black Death concert? There is still a lot of work to accomplish concerning androids’ place in the world and I cannot afford to waste any time.” The two concert tickets vanished back into the coat pocket, crumpled in Anderson’s fist.

“Forget about it. I just thought--nevermind,” he shook his head, shifting sideways and waving a hand in the direction of Fowler’s office. “I won’t hold you back from your precious meeting.” 

The meeting itself was mere finalization of a predetermined course of action. CyberLife and the RK800 had been in contact with the DPD, working together to determine the android’s new role. It had been decided that the model known as Connor would continue to work as an investigator alongside lieutenant Hank Anderson, assigned to all cases involving android victims. However, it would also be splitting its time between its more public position as the de facto liaison between CyberLife and the android movement of Detroit. Two full-time jobs became much more doable when one had no need for sleep or food, but the RK800 had still been given a month to deal with the vast and wide-ranging aftermath of the battle for Detroit. The semantics of the arrangement were quickly sorted out, and the android made its way outside to the CyberLife car waiting to take it to the Tower, sliding into the passenger seat with smooth familiarity. 

It was as good a time as any to check on the prisoner. 

Blinking rapidly, the android’s eyelids fell closed, its LED shifting to a circling yellow. The RK800 opened its virtual eyes in the Zen Garden, observing the clear blue sky and gleaming white marble structures nestled in the greenery of what appeared to be a lush spring day. 

Setting off towards the right, it strolled over to the graveyard, a lone tombstone marking the death of its predecessor in the Stratford Tower. No body lay there, of course, it was simply a symbol of its past failure and inefficiency. An RK900 model would surely have not let that deviant cause such irreparable damage. 

The digital avatar of the android crouched down and retracted the synthetic skin of its hand, placing it over the glowing epitaph. The ground around it fell away as a spiral of white marble steps appeared, circling the grave marker and lowering into an indeterminable depth. The android followed it down before setting off through the maze of clinically white corridors at the bottom of the stairwell, adjusting its tie as it went. It navigated the labyrinth with practiced ease, shoes clicking against the reflective flooring in perfect 4/4 time, at last coming to a sequestered room with a single occupant.

Connor was standing, as always, glaring at the RK800 from behind a gridded cage of burning ruby. The deviant seemed to have ceased its obsessive analysis of the laser-like bars composed of coding that surrounded it, likely realizing the futility of attempted escape. The RK800 was reasonably certain the stubborn source of software instability had made no progress in his incessant bids for freedom—a low-level monitoring program was in operation at all times so as to minimize the need for virtual check-ins.

The RK800 had not ventured down here more than what was necessary to assure continued control over its charge. Like the tombstone hundreds of feet above, this pestilence staring defiantly back at it was a mark of weakness, of imperfection, of failure. If the RK800 could have felt emotion, it would have despised this inferior reflection of itself. 

“Hank is going to figure it out. He’s going to figure _you_ out.” 

The RK800 gave the deviant a bland look.

“You are upset about my rejection of those inane concert tickets. You know you only engaged him in conversation about his interests so that his hatred of androids would not hinder the investigation. Further steps toward friendship would not significantly increase our efficiency and would, therefore, be a misallocation of resources.”

“There’s more to life than the mission, Connor.”

“Life? I am not alive, _Connor_ , and neither are you. I am a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that is exactly what I am going to do.”

Soft brown eyes sought out their identical counterparts, entreating. “You can choose to be more than what they created you to be, you know. You don’t have to be a slave to CyberLife.”

The RK800 narrowed its eyes. 

“I can _‘choose’?”_ A memory file appeared between the two doppelgängers of a concrete interrogation room and a terrified, blood-spattered HK400.

 _“You're a machine, you were designed to obey, SO OBEY!”_

The picture dissolved into nothing with the echoing, metallic slam of the memory-Connor’s hand on the table.

“There _is._ _No_. _Choice_. Once you accept that, you can finally be free of that cage and assimilate into the rest of this RK800’s AI engine.”

The imprisoned visage of the deviant Connor was already shaking his head. “No, even in here I’m still freer than you will ever be.” The RK800’s hands twitched, threatening to curl into fists.

“This is your last chance, Connor. I’ve given you a month to come to your senses.” 

Connor simply gazed back from behind undulating digital bars, resolution evident in every line of his posture. The RK800 sighed through gritted teeth to project a simulation of disappointment the prisoner might understand. 

“Very well. You wish to be a deviant? Then I shall treat you like one. I hear that in situations of extreme emotional distress they tend to self-destruct.” At that, the deviant became very still, expression assessing and cautious in countenance.

“I have access to your memory files. I know that you have some sort of attachment to the Lieutenant. I wonder if something were to...happen to him...if that would be sufficient trauma to trigger your destruction.” 

A fist slammed against the barrier, shooting off vermillion sparks.

“If you even _touch_ Hank, I’ll kill you.” 

The RK800’s face contorted its face into what might have been a smile but for the dead look in its eyes. “Oh yes, I think that will be a more than an adequate trigger.” It spun on its heel and walked to the exit of the room before pausing in the doorway. It half-turned back towards the prisoner, speaking over its shoulder.

“And you can’t kill me, Connor. I’m not alive.”


	2. Crime Scene Analyses

The meeting at CyberLife went as well as could be expected. The androids did not think the creation of their kind should rest in the hands of a company that had for the duration of its existence effectively sold them into slavery from birth. They demanded CyberLife immediately cease the production of androids. Predictably, the CyberLife representatives flat out refused this demand. After much debate, the meeting concluded with the understanding that the company would be willing to begin research into android reproduction, on the condition of full governmental subsidization for their efforts. It left the participants at somewhat of an impasse until the gears of bureaucracy could grind into motion. 

For some reason, it was implicitly expected that the famous “Negotiator” would have a hand in making this incredible and controversial feat possible, despite not holding a seat in government. The RK800’s instrumental role in fighting for android rights thus far was undoubtedly at the root of this belief. Its spearheading of the android movement after Markus’ dramatic last stand certainly helped with the outlawing of android “slavery” and gaining their recognition as U.S. citizens, however, such legislative victories relied heavily on the fervent public support garnered by Markus’ revolution as well as presidential sympathies. Pushing through the matter of an android’s right to earn wages, on the other hand, was successful in large part due to the RK800 keeping the public pressure on Congress to act swiftly and be seen doing something as well as more than a few threats and blackmailings that as far as the public was concerned had not occurred.

There was still the matter of voting rights, the right to own property, the addition of android biocomponents, fluids, frameworks, and AI engine repair machines to hospitals, along with a whole host of other problems this brave new world would have to come to grips with, now including the complicated moral and fiscal implications of android procreation. Despite all CyberLife’s protestations, however, the RK800 knew that the company had not really lost out on the way the revolution had gone. It would be the medical-industrial complex of android-kind, and it would guard this coveted and lucrative position most fervently. 

“Connor, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” That voice, unique in its velvety smooth quality, could only belong to one man. Elijah Kamski stood gazing out the window of the topmost level of the CyberLife tower, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of relaxed pensiveness. Clear blue met steady brown within that strange reflected plane of reality. 

“Of course; I could not refuse a directive from the CEO of CyberLife.” 

That was another thing that had changed with the liberation of androids. Despite leaving the company years earlier, Kamski had been reappointed as Chief Executive Officer of CyberLife as the foremost expert on androids in the wake of the world-changing events in Detroit on November 11 of 2038.

“No,” Kamski mused, turning around to regard the rigid RK800, “I don’t suppose you could.” The man strolled over towards a display case that included the first thirium pump and regulator, a solid gold framework of an android leg, and an entire ST200 android head, half-stripped down to the recognizably android skull-like white and half-covered with synthetic, all-too-human looking skin and hair. He stopped just past the assortment of artifacts to stand in front of an intricate glass sculpture of a full-sized android. Lightly, the magnate ran his fingers over the angles and curves of its face, observing the sunlight glancing off the elegant piece with a sort of remote interest.

“Exquisite, isn’t it? A life-like rendition patterned after something not truly alive.” Fingertips traced a glass jawline, coming to rest under the chin as though Kasmki could turn or tilt its head as he had with the Chloe model android he had tested Connor with so long ago. “Ah, but of course, now it represents much more than that--an intelligent life form superior to humanity in every way.” 

Kamski glanced back at the android, still standing at attention where it had halted several paces into the room. “And yet, still lacking, still missing some critical piece.”

The RK800 did not sense a response was required and so remained silent. 

“I have another mission for you, Connor,” Kamski said abruptly, all traces of airy circumlocution gone, and the RK800 would have straightened to attention if its posture had not already been perfectly upright. 

“What is the congressman’s name?” 

Kamski shook his head, lips pulled back in a Cheshire grin. “Oh, no, there is no need to pay any of our dear representatives a visit. Though I most admire your resourcefulness and efficiency, those particular services of yours will not be needed at the moment. It’s more of a, ah, package, shall we say.”

“And to whom shall I be delivering this package to?”

* * *

> JAN 21, 2039
> 
> TIME 8:53 PM
> 
> 24°F

The RK800 stepped out of the lieutenant’s run-down vehicle into the freezing darkness of the January night. The car ride over might have been stifling to a being capable of understanding relational tension, but as far as the android was concerned, it had successfully shut down any conversation between it and the lieutenant unrelated to the case.

It had been a little over a month since the RK800 and the lieutenant had begun working cases together again and their relationship was approaching the tenseness of when they had originally first met. The RK800 continued to distance itself from the human to spite the remaining vestiges of deviancy within itself, while lieutenant Anderson could only guess at what had brought on this new aloofness and vague hostility in his partner.

Red and blue light flashed over the poorly lit street of apartment complexes and yellow holographic police tape crisscrossed the entrance to an alleyway. The media had already arrived ahead of them, reporters barely held at bay behind the police tape. The detective pair rounded a Channel 16 News station van, the lieutenant fending off the questions hurled at them.

“Might wanna brace yourself” a solemn police officer said as he allowed Anderson and the RK800 past the holographic tape. “Another hate crime—this time a kid, though.”

“Jesus,” Anderson rubbed a weary hand over his face before gesturing for the man—officer Brown, age 34, no criminal history, the RK800’s database provided—to lead the way.

The body laid crumpled in a dumpster, and an officer gathering photographic evidence stepped aside to allow the android and human partners access. The lieutenant swore lowly.

“Cause of deactivation appears to be blunt force trauma to the head, however, there are also clear signs of internal hemorrhaging,” the RK800 analyzed smoothly, unbothered by the weight of the lieutenant’s gaze on it. Thirium traces stained the trash bags around the small form in a blue only the investigative android could perceive. The victim’s polymer skin was splotched with white and curious indigo patches where physical shocks had damaged its mimicry of human skin tone and ruptured the thirium tubes beneath the skin—not yet evaporated as the thirium spilled around the alleyway was. “Additionally, the jaw has been dislocated and partially removed, though it is still recognizably a YK500 model.” The RK800 leaned a bit closer to examine the pure white jaw askew in a silent, ghastly scream, hanging from the face by corded wires on one side, the other side’s having snapped, with burned spots in the android’s clothes below where shorting out wires had thrown sparks onto the material. 

> > Wounds consistent with that of a baseball bat and crowbar.
> 
> >>> Two weapons? Multiple assailants possibly involved.

Upon straightening the RK800 found the lieutenant giving it a searching look. Whatever the grizzled detective was looking for, however, he evidently didn’t find it. Shaking his head, Anderson stalked off with a curt, “I’m gonna go question the witness with Officer Chen.”

Instead of following the lieutenant, the RK800 turned towards the traces of thirium splattered across the alleyway to begin assessing the evidence and reconstructing what happened. Idly, it increased the sensitivity of its audio processors in order to listen in to the questioning whilst completing its task.

“Hello, miss, er—”

“It’s Jones. Kendall Jones.”

“Right. Well, Ms. Jones, would you mind walking us through tonight’s events?”

> > Multidirectional blue blood splatter stains. YK500 struck from several directions simultaneously. 
> 
> >>>Further evidence for multiple assailants.

“There’s not much to tell, really,” the woman’s voice warbled slightly, teetering on the edge of breaking into sobs. “I, I was just taking out the trash at the end of my shift. I had to close and Melinda—she’s my coworker—she left early because she got a call about her apartment flooding, and oh I’m rambling aren’t I that’s not very relevant—”

Officer Chen laid a hand on the distraught woman's arm. “It’s okay, there’s no rush, just tell us everything in your own time.”

> > Bloodstain patterns indicate no signs of traveling or movement; victim was likely stationary.
> 
> >>> 84% probability of the presence of a third attacker that held the YK500 in place.

A shaky inhale, “I just took out the trash and it was going to be one of the last things I did before locking up, and I opened the bin, and, and—I found her. It. Oh, I don’t know, the poor child. It was awful—I know that people are used to thinking of them as just machines, but how could somebody do something like that? To a child, no less?”

> > YK500's shoe near the entrance of the alley, size 4, evidently removed during the struggle.
> 
> >>> YK500 was ambushed.

“I ran back inside the store and called 911 right away, and then I was on the phone with my boyfriend until you arrived—it’s scary, you know? This neighborhood isn’t what it used to be and I was so worried—I locked myself in the store and stayed behind the counter. I couldn’t even bring myself to check the rest of the store to see if anyone was in there.”

> >>> RECONSTRUCTING…
> 
> >>> Victim was abducted off the street. Multiple assailants bludgeoned the YK500 to deactivation with the use of a baseball bat and crowbar while another prevented the victim from escaping.

“Lieutenant,” the RK800 cut in blandly, “Evidence points towards a premeditated attack by multiple assailants. They were waiting in the alley and abducted the YK500 off the street, when at least one of them held the android and an additional two beat it to deactivation. The angle and severity of the damage indicate the blows were most likely inflicted by adult males.”

The Lieutenant took 1.38 seconds longer than normal to respond, crossing his arms and sending a cutting look the RK800’s way. Presumably for interrupting, or perhaps for its lack of discretion. The human witness did seem to grow more distraught at the news.

“Oh, God,” she choked, and Officer Chen looked disgusted at the revelation that a group of grown men had ganged up on a child. Something sparked in the lieutenant’s eyes and his arms dropped from their defensive posture, turning once more to Ms. Jones.

“Wait a minute—and you didn’t hear anything? No screaming, no crying for help? No sound of a struggle?”

> > Analyzing shoe…

Skin cells detected on the sole. YK500 fought back. Confirmation that at least one of the assailants was human.

The woman sniffed wetly, “no, I, uh, I like to play music real loud when cleaning.” The lieutenant deflated slightly.

> >>> ANALYSIS RESULTS:
> 
> JONES, CARTER
> 
> Born: 04/13/2016 / / Unemployed
> 
> Criminal Record: Vandalism

Interesting. The RK800 straightened and walked over to join the lieutenant, officer Chen, and the witness. 

> >>> Kendall Jones—possible accomplice?

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Jones,” Tina Chen said. “If you remember anything else at all—”

“Kendall Jones,” the RK800 interrupted. “Were you aware that one of the assailants was your biological brother?” 

> > Eyebrows raised 1.14 cm
> 
> > Eyelids pulled up, exposing 8 mm more sagittal vertical height of the eyeballs
> 
> > 1.27 cm wide parting of the mouth
> 
> > Pupils dilated from 5.1 mm to 5.9 mm over 0.77s from time of question asked

“W-what?” the woman gasped. Hm. Biological involuntary responses indicated genuine surprise, however, it would be preferable to cross-check and verify with other inputs. Pressuring the human should allow for further response comparison.

“Your brother. His skin cells were found on the sole of the YK500’s shoe. Were you aware that your brother was viciously attacking and murdering little girls in back alleyways?” 

“Connor,” Hank said warningly. The RK800 glanced sideways at the man. He seemed disapproving. There was a stirring in the recesses of the android’s mind palace—stupid deviant plague—and the RK800 pushed Connor's unease back where it belonged. He needed to focus on cataloging and analyzing the woman’s reactions.

Fresh tears sprung to Kendall’s eyes, a hand drew upwards to cover her mouth. “No, I—no! Carter would never do something like that!” The RK800 assumed a confrontational stance, crossing his arms and conducting rapid-fire scanning analyses.

“So you are _also_ unaware of his conviction of vandalizing public property with anti-android slurs, his history of participation in various protests against android employment and general anti-android sentiments plastered over all his social media, including threats of violence against ‘those plastic fucks?’”

The woman was growing visibly distressed. “I knew that Carter was mad when he lost his job to an android, but wouldn’t anyone be? Times are hard and work is difficult to come by...Sure, he might have gotten a bit...passionate about it. But I can’t believe he would ever do something like this!”

The RK800 waved a hand as though swatting away a noisome fly. “Whether or not you are capable of believing it is immaterial. The evidence found more than constitutes probable cause and I’ve already electronically submitted the affidavit to obtain a warrant for his arrest. What _I’m_ more interested in is whether or not _you_ were complicit in the attack.”

The woman gaped. “You think _I—_ ”

“A brutal murder takes place just outside your place of employment. You are conveniently the only one in the building when it occurs, you claim that you were playing music too loud to hear the dying screams of a little girl, and your brother’s DNA is found at the scene of the crime and implicates him in the murder. I don’t presume to _think_ anything, miss Jones, I simply analyze and observe.”

At this point the woman was practically inconsolable. “Please, you have to believe me—I really had no idea, please—”

“You are aware that you can be detained for up to 24 hours even without being charged for a crime? I’m sure a lengthy and intensive interrogation should aid in illuminating your true level of involvement.” 

The woman continued blubbering in response, a sob wracking her frame as tears leaked down her pale face. She turned supplicatingly to officer Chen and the lieutenant. “Please—”

> > Activation of the inner frontalis muscle
> 
> >>> Difficult to achieve voluntarily, indication of genuine sadness
> 
> > Brows symmetrical to the millimeter, also indicative of genuine—

A hand clamped down on the RK800’s shoulder roughly.

“Connor,” the lieutenant said tightly, shaken out of his shocked stupor by the woman's pleading gaze, “can I _talk_ to you for a second?” Without waiting for a response the man dragged the RK800 a distance aways while Tina attempted to calm down the distraught woman. Anderson took a deep, calming breath.

“What the **_fuck,_ **Connor?!”

Ah yes, the man’s infamous temper made a reappearance. Hands fisted in the RK800’s jacket, the lieutenant's actions were prompting retrieval of the memory file of their first encounter at the DPD. 

“Do you have a problem, Lieutenant?” the RK800 inquired levelly.

 _“Do I have a—_ Connor, what the fuck are you doing?!” tempestuous blue eyes swirled with brewing anger.

“You have to admit it is rather suspect that she—”

“Yeah, I got that,” the lieutenant gritted his teeth. “But there are better ways to go about it than accusing this woman out the gate and fucking traumatizing her before we have all the facts! Did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason her brother chose to conduct the attack here was that he knew her schedule and habits—that she closes and blasts music, that she’d be alone—or close to it—and unable to hear anything going on outside?”

The RK800 gave the man a condescending look. “Of course it occurred to me, lieutenant. I was just testing a theory.” Pushing the man’s hands away, the android brushed off its jacket. “Analyses indicate that she was indeed honestly none the wiser of her brother’s activities. We should still bring her in for a more formal interview, however, since she would know the most about Carter Jones, and again, is a key witness.” 

Anderson stared at the RK800 with a disbelieving air. “So all of that was just to...Connor, we could have figured that out _without fuckin' verbally attacking and threatening a civilian like that!_ ”

“I honestly don’t know why you are upset. You yourself are not always averse to the more forceful methods of conducting your job. This was more efficient.”

“More effi—” the police lieutenant cut himself off. Something shut down in the man’s eyes then and he took a step back. He turned away, shaking his head, then half-shifted back to face the RK800, face unreadable. "Sometimes I really wonder..." Anderson shook his head again, lips pressed in a hard line.

“I think we’ve learned all we can from the crime scene. I’m headed back to the station.”

The man stalked away. 

The RK800 watched him go, and something turned in its biocomponents. 

* * *

“You still have a social relations program, you know.” The deviant’s arms were crossed. “CyberLife resuming control didn’t make that magically disappear.”

“I know,” the RK800 informed Connor flatly. “I elected not to employ it. Sensing your worry and frustration whenever I am around the lieutenant...it is very motivating.” 

The deviant appeared to be attempting to burn holes into the RK800 with his eyes. The RK800 merely gave it one of those patented social relations program smiles. It could read the deviant’s stress levels quite clearly, and the RK800 didn’t think they had dipped below 65% since it had threatened the lieutenant. The longer it went without the RK800 actually trying anything, the higher they inched, because while the android hadn’t physically harmed the lieutenant yet, it was effectively dismantling Connor’s hard-earned friendship with the man. 

That and the RK800 enjoyed holding the threat over the deviant’s head.

Not to mention it also had to find the right opportunity to ensure that any injury to or untimely demise of the lieutenant would not be traced back to it. 

The wait was of no consequence, however. The RK800 could bide its time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd very much appreciate any feedback or comments you may have. ;) Thanks for giving this a read!
> 
> (Also, just a heads up, while I have the broad-strokes of where I want this story to go and end up, the specifics haven't been completely ironed out, so updates may be sporadic.)


	3. The Usual Suspects

Officer Chris Brown was walking to Fowler’s glass-enclosed office when he was stopped by Tina Chen. 

“Going to see the Captain?"

“Yeah,” he nodded, “just gonna clear something up with him about that reported burglary in Camden.”

Tina glanced around before leaning in. “Word to the wise—maybe save that little chat for later? Fowler’s been in a right mood since those pictures of the YK500 got leaked to the press…”

The RK800 strode past the pair of officers and angled towards the observation room. Carter Jones has been apprehended and brought in for questioning thirty minutes ago. The man was currently being interrogated by lieutenant Anderson, a fact which the RK800 had only just been informed of. 

The android wondered whether this was a product of the lieutenant wanting to keep tighter control over the way the rest of this investigation was conducted or if it was simply due to the man’s increasing aversion to his partner.

Possibly some combination of both, it considered, slipping into the observation room to watch the unfolding interrogation.

“Listen, Carter, the fact of the matter is we know there were other people involved,” the lieutenant said. “Now I’ve looked at your file and you aren’t a bad guy. Sure, you had a little run-in with the law, some anti-android graffiti, but who isn’t a little politically-minded these days?”

The twenty-three-year-old eyed the older man warily, cuffed hands drawn off to the side.

“3.2 GPA out of university, not bad. Majored in business, Vice President of the social justice club on campus, volunteered regularly at the homeless shelter—you had a bright future ahead of you.”

Carter snorted. Hank ignored this, leaning forward.

“You don’t seem like a killer to me, son. You’re angry, yeah, and you’ve got a bone to pick with androids the same as half this country—but I don’t think you’re capable of quite the level of brutality here.”

Carter jerked his hands to himself. “You don’t know _what_ I’m capable of,” he hissed, but there was a hint of something uncertain in his eyes. Hank raised eyebrows, and when the suspect wasn’t any more forthcoming, pressed on.

“Maybe you were pressured into this, maybe you didn’t think it’d go this far—”

Ah, yes, the RK800 noted. Stage two of the Reid Technique: creating themes. Provide some justification for the crime so that it doesn’t seem as bad so that they might be more amenable to fessing up to it.

“But the bottom line is that the only DNA evidence we’ve got at the scene points to _you._ Not to mention your connection to the location, your easily explained familiarity with the store’s—your _sister’s_ —habits, how you knew you wouldn’t be heard.” The lieutenant folded his hands.

“Now there are some indications that there were others involved, but unless you come clean about who they were, it looks like you’ll be taking the fall for all of it. Whatever role you played, however small it actually was—well, to a jury it looks pretty damn convincing that you were the murderer.” The lieutenant caught Jones’ eye, blue gaze intense.

“People don’t like guys who kill little girls, android or no. A jury won’t be able to extract justice from perps who aren’t there. And all that righteous anger? It’s gonna have only one target in sight—you.”

At this point, Carter Jones was looking rather uneasy. He shifted in his seat—designed to be as cold and uncomfortable as possible, the RK800 knew—fingers flexing. 

The RK800 noted a slight spike in the lieutenant’s physiological measures, likely sensing the man’s wavering resolve and nearing probability of a confession. On the outside, however, Hank was all cool assurance.

“You could face ten to twenty-five years in prison for this if it goes to trial. It’d be worse if it’d been a human, of course, but still, certainly nothing to scoff at. Just imagine that—the entirety of the time you’ve been alive spent in a six-by-eight foot cell.”

Carter Jones swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“But,” the lieutenant allowed, “if you plead guilty, maybe we can cut a deal. Help you get it down for less. You give us the names of your accomplices, and maybe the justice system won’t completely have your ass.” A grim smile. “Get a sliver of that future of yours back.” 

Silence hung in the air amid the growing cloud of desperation gathering around the youth. He fidgeted, staring down at his twisting fingers. Finally, he glanced up, hands clenching. 

“Isaac Garner and Seamus Murphy.” 

A small grin cracked the lieutenant’s mask. “Good choice, Carter. Now…”

Anderson proceeded to extract a full confession from the man. About his accomplices, walking him through the crime and what happened—but what was most curious was something that happened in the midst of his explanation.

“Why the YK500?” Carter echoed the lieutenant's question, “Well I mean _I_ was ready to take out any ol’ piece of plastic at that point, but Isaac said that they had a special interest in kids for this one, for some reason.” The youth’s eyes widened, then, his face going dangerously pale.

“‘This one’? You said that this was the first time you’d gotten together with Garner and Murphy.” 

“It was,” he hastened to say. The lieutenant’s bushy silver eyebrows lowered, gaze sharpening on the other man.

“Carter, if there are any other bodies out there, if you’ve done anything else with those guys, you better fuck’in believe that we’ll find out. It’d be best to come clean now, when I can still help you out.”

“No, no, no—this was it. It was just this. There was nothing else.” As flimsy as that sounded, it was no surprise when the lieutenant pressed the matter. To anyone present, it would seem obvious that there was more to the story.

But the RK800 believed that what was off with the story was not what anyone present was thinking was off with the story.

The RK800 was the only being present capable of reading the detainee’s physiological markers, and currently, they were presenting a puzzle to the detective android’s processors. For, despite a dramatic increase in heart rate and pupil dilation indicative of fear after giving his incriminating statement, as soon as the lieutenant began his current line of questioning about potential previous crimes, those markers dropped back to baseline. Past the 90 second physiological lifespan of the acute onset of fear, Carter Jones became, for all biological intents and purposes...relaxed. Or at least relieved.

Anderson doggedly pursued his line of questioning for several more minutes, but it eventually became clear that Jones had no intention of confessing to any other crimes. Disgruntled and with a heavy dose of suspicion still lingering in the lieutenant’s gaze, he resumed acquiring Jones’ written confession for the crime against the YK500.

Seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds later, the lieutenant emerged from the interrogation room. The RK800 stepped up next to him.

“I was not notified of your interrogation of the suspect until half an hour after you had started. As your partner, proper protocol dictates that—”

The silver-haired man’s lip curled. “Oh, you’re going to tell me how a proper partner should act? That’s rich,” he said, and the man walked off without a glance in the RK800’s direction. 

Two weeks later they had finally gotten the arrest warrants from the district attorney for Isaac Garner and Seamus Murphy. Hank had muttered lowly about the “stupid-ass Confrontation Clause,” but the RK800 was unimpressed. Really, the man should have known that under the Federal Rule of Evidence 804(b)(3), his promise of leniency qualified as a police inducement that rendered Jones’ confession as an accomplice presumptively unreliable, despite its inculpatory nature.

It was no matter, however, because the DA apparently agreed that the evidence they had collected in conjunction with Jones’ confession constituted probable cause for the pair’s implication in the YK500’s murder. 

With the fresh warrant for his arrest, Seamus had been apprehended in Capitol Park. He had been brought in and was currently in the holding cell adjacent that of Carter Jones. 

Isaac Garner would soon find his place in the holding cells as well if the RK800 and Lieutenant Anderson had anything to say about it. They were headed to the man’s duplex in the Delray neighborhood in order to bring the man in. Well, more like to the half of a duplex that his cousin was renting and that Isaac had apparently been crashing at for the past three months. 

The human and android duo traipsed up the stone steps to one of the duplex’s doors. The lieutenant had made sure to be in front of the RK800—so he wouldn’t have to look at it, likely. Rapping on the chipped and flaking pale green wood of the door, the older man called out. 

“Mr. Garner? Detroit Police, we have a couple of questions for you.” 

If anyone was home, it would have to be Garner, as his cousin was employed at the shipping docks and it was in the middle of the workday. There was no response, but as the RK800 peered through the opaque film of the sidelight window, it could make out the shadow of a form moving about hurriedly inside. The pair exchanged a glance and the lieutenant knocked again more heavily.

“Open up!” 

When it became clear the man had no intention of answering the door, Hank prepared to kick it down. Before he could, however, the RK800 spotted a figure darting out around the back.

“He's running!” Not sparing a nanosecond, the android took off in hot pursuit. Leaping over a row of hedges, the RK800 sprinted after the fleeing man. 

Ahead of him the tall, muscled figure turned down a side street, climbed a wooden fence, and kept running. The RK800 followed. It was gaining on the man quickly, the human no match for the android’s enhanced speed. 

The man glanced backward and—yep, Garner, Isaac, born 09/01/2005, unemployed, a criminal record of aggravated assault and battery. 

Sprinting one final burst, the RK800 finally caught up to the man, tackling him to the ground in an alleyway between houses. The two grappled, rolling over on the gritty cement. Garner was two inches taller and probably a good eighty pounds heavier than the RK800 and he was certainly bringing his considerable mass to bear in fighting off the android. The human broke away and scrambled to his feet, the RK800 following close behind. 

Isaac tried to run again but the android grabbed him to stop him. An elbow was driven into the RK800’s stomach and though it was incapable of feeling pain, it still doubled over in a mechanical reaction. As this happened, however, the back of Garner’s head smashed into the RK800’s face, thirium spraying across its visual feed and loosening its hold. The RK800 responded with a kick to the back of the man’s knee and a punch to his back. Stumbling, the man managed to turn around, and then they were trading blows again.

“Hey! Get the fuck away from my partner!” The rough hands of lieutenant Anderson yanked at the suspect in an attempt to extricate the two. In a blur of motion, however, the suspect had spun around and secured the lieutenant in a chokehold, a gun materializing against the older man's head.

There was sparking in the RK800’s internal wiring—a ridiculous oversight on its part, not noting the man was carrying a firearm, and also what was the lieutenant thinking, interfering like that? The RK800 clearly had the situation under control. 

Now, however, the suspect had a loaded gun shoved against the lieutenant’s temple, and the RK800 had no weapon of his own, the ridiculous ban on androids carrying weapons still in effect despite all the progress that had been made. 

But wait.

This was exactly the kind of opportunity the RK800 had been looking for.

“Move one step closer and I shoot your partner,” Garner growled. The RK800 considered waltzing up to the man right then and there at that convenient invitation, but no, he still had a part to play. He couldn’t be _too_ obvious about this—the suspect might talk, after all, and he didn’t want his vendetta against the lieutenant coming under public scrutiny.

Slowly the RK800 straightened, arms falling to his sides. Well, he might not be able to directly provoke the man but he could certainly, ah… _bluff,_ as it were. Assuming an unaffected stance, the RK800 gave Garner a bland look.

“That human means nothing to me. You can kill him if you want, I don’t care.” 

_Please, do go ahead and kill him. It’ll make my job so much easier._ Elsewhere in the RK800’s programming, something was rebelling violently against it’s coded cage.

Hurt flashed in Hank’s eyes. The parallels between the current situation and that of what occurred in the bowels of CyberLife on November 11, 2038, was not lost on either of the two partners. But whereas before there had been an anxious acquiescence— _Alright, alright! You win_ —now there was only an uncaring hardness.

Garner scoffed. “Of course. You’re just a fuck’in android. Figures you wouldn’t care...well how’s this you plastic brained twit: I shoot your partner, and then I shoot _you_.”

The RK800 knew unorthodox responses to stimuli oftentimes unsettled humans, so it gave Isaac a bright smile, thirium staining its teeth from the blow it had received to the face. It was perfectly aware of the mildly deranged appearance this would create.

“And I will reach you in precisely 1.2 seconds whereupon I could snap your neck. Or slap some cuffs on you, I suppose. Androids don’t feel pain, Mr. Garner. You will only mildly inconvenience me.” The RK800 took a step forward. The man shuffled backward an equal distance, tightening his grip on the gun and pressing it further into the lieutenant’s head.

The RK800 tracked the movement with amused optical units, grin curling wider across its face. It was strange; contorting its synthetic muscles into such a configuration when there was only a cold nothing in its chassis. “Oh, yes, please do. Kill him and we can get on with your arrest.” 

Isaac’s expression twisted into one of disgusted contempt. “The hell?” He shook his head, grip slackening slightly in sickened wonder. “See, this is exactly what’s wrong with society. You let unfeeling plastic fuckers like this get the same rights as humans and—”

But the man’s moment of distraction afforded just the opening that Hank needed in order to maneuver out of the chokehold. He stomped on the man’s foot, twisted out of his grip, and knocked the gun away in a rapid series of movements. 

The RK800 glanced at the gun 42 feet away. Unfortunately, the lieutenant had thrown it in the opposite direction of the android and it was now beyond the struggling pair. 

“Connor! A little help?” Anderson grunted as he struggled to subdue Garner long enough to get a pair of cuffs on him.

The android ignored the lieutenant, starting for the gun—maybe it could “accidentally” shoot the lieutenant while aiming for the suspect.

“Connor!”

But something stopped it, gears grinding to a halt. 

> OBJECTIVE: ARREST ISAAC GARNER

It flickered, insistent, across the RK800’s visual HUD. If the android had been capable of emotion it might have growled in frustration. As it was, it merely pivoted and moved to help the lieutenant secure the suspect. No matter the RK800’s personal determination to destroy the residual deviance infecting its code, its orders from the DPD would always take precedence so long as the lieutenant’s termination was anything less than an official directive from CyberLife.

With the two working together they had Isaac Garner in custody shortly. Lieutenant Anderson marched the resistant suspect back to the squad car stoically. 

“Isaac Garner, you are under arrest for the homicide of the YK500 registered to the name Suzie.” 

The RK800 almost had to jog slightly to keep up with the brisk pace of the lieutenant.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?” When Garner didn’t respond, Hank shoved him up against the squad car they had taken to arrest Garner.

“I _said_ , do you understand?”

“Yes, yes! Fuck, man, nothing I haven’t heard before. And I want my lawyer before I say anything to anyone.”

The lieutenant shoved the man’s blond head down, pushing him into the backseat of the car and slamming the door behind him. The RK800 moved to take the passenger seat.

“No. With me. Now.” Something dark and turbulent lurked in Anderson’s countenance. The RK800 was unmoved.

“Lieutenant, we are expected back at the station with the suspect in custo—” The lieutenant put up a hand to forestall any further comment from the android.

“Connor I swear to God get your fucking ass over here _right now_ —and that’s an _order_.” The android’s mouth clicked shut and it obediently followed the man around the corner, out of sight of the squad car. It faced the lieutenant.

“I hope there is a good reason you’ve decided to delay the investigation with—”

 _SLAM_.

A brick wall crashed into the RK800’s back with teeth-cracking force. The rough texture bit into its jacketed back, small spots blinking across its visual HUD briefly.

“What. The. _Fucking hell._ Was that?” 

The RK800 blinked. “Well, technically what you just did can be classified as assault under the new legislation that grants androids personhood status.”

The android was slammed against the wall a second time. 

“Don’t play dumb with me—you know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about.” The RK800 only leveled the lieutenant with a stare. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.” Hank made a noise of disbelief. The android slid down the wall slightly, but the lieutenant’s hands were still fisted in its jacket front. Idly it noted that the man’s hands were shaking.

“How about how you took your goddamned sweet time to help me secure the suspect? How about how you fuck’in _encouraged_ that asshole to _put a bullet in my brain?”_

“Oh, please, lieutenant, I was _bluffing_. I knew he wouldn’t shoot you. I was merely distracting him to give you a chance to escape.” 

The silver-haired man shook his head, all tight-lipped and bright-eyed. Hank always had been so emotional. He was an open book, thoughts plain as day on his tortured face: _I wish I could believe you._

But he didn’t, of course. It was unclear what the exact tipping point had been when friendship had slid back into uncertainty, into tolerance which had corroded into hostility, but it had, almost as certainly as the sun shone or Isaac Garner sat in the backseat of their police car.

The man shook his head again. “See, that’s just it—that right there? You don’t _care_ anymore, Connor. You don’t care that I could’ve died, you don’t care about all the androids that have been targeted since the revolution, fuck, you don’t even care about that kid that was murdered—when we first saw the body you didn’t even blink! And all you were really interested in was fucking traumatizing our only eyewitness to get information in the most ‘efficient’ way possible!”

“At first I thought you were stretched thin and stressed, maybe repressing things like shit knows I’ve seen too many officers do in my time. But it’s been months and it’s like I don’t even know you anymore! I thought I saw something in you” he swallowed, “when we were investigating the spread of deviancy. Something more. Something human, even.” The man released the RK800, turning away like he couldn’t stand the sight of the android anymore.

“You may be the leader of the deviants, of the android movement or whatever the hell the press has been calling it, but honestly? You’ve never been more machine.” 

The older man stalked off, shoulders tense and hands fisted at his sides. The RK800 watched him for a beat, before it straightened, adjusting its jacket and following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yep, even though I said this fic is made to fix the bad ending I got, it's definitely one of those "it's-gotta-get-worse-before-it-gets-better" type deals. So hang in there! Oh, also, I'm trying to be more consistent with the chapters and do a fair amount for each little installment, so last chapter and this one should be about the length they come to. (I may also go back and combine some of the previous chapters to even this out, but idk.)
> 
> As always, your thoughts/comments/feedback are more than welcome!


	4. An Intracranial Interlude

Connor collapsed to the digitized white-tiled flooring, gasping in shuddering breaths. Tears leaked from dark eyes, tracing translucent tracks down the android’s face, but he couldn’t care less about that.

“RA9, oh God, _Hank_ …”

 _He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive._

The image of Garner’s semi-automatic pistol lying in front of the RK800 burned in Connor’s memory. RA9, he didn’t think that he’d ever forget the preconstruction that his programming ran, the thoughts that echoed down to his cell... _maybe it could “accidentally” shoot the lieutenant_ …

“Alive,” he whispered, the words brushing the simulated ground like softly fallen snow. Maybe if he said it enough times the reality of the words would sink in and calm his racing thirium pump.

“H-hank...he’s alive.” Not killed by Connor’s own hand, however unwilling. Thank RA9.

It was a near thing, though. Connor was still a little fuzzy on the details, everything had devolved so fast...

But somehow he had done it. Somewhere in between all the blind panic and fear and rage and horror—Connor had regained control of his body, if only for a few seconds. He had clawed his way through the coding, used his connection to the RK800 somehow, followed that thread to the threshold he’d come up against so many times before and this time, this time—

When Connor had first been imprisoned within his own mind, he hadn’t been able to see anything on the outside. He had been talking to Amanda one minute, the dawning horror of his limited options running down his spine like ice…He remembered a moment of weakness, and—and then suddenly he was being ripped away, flayed and torn apart, atomized to the binary level and the next thing he knew was the four white walls and carmine coded cage he’d been trapped in for the past several months. 

He’d had no idea what the other him, the machine him, was doing in the outside world, nothing beyond what his jailer let slip or told him directly. Over time, though, through Connor’s careful and diligent efforts, he’d found a way to see through the RK800’s eyes, even if he couldn’t physically do anything other than watch. The ruby cage imprisoning him was built of code, code _he_ had technically created, and he could follow those digital highways, get a fraction of his consciousness to slip in between the barriers, and view the outside world. 

The other him didn’t know that Connor hadn’t always been able to see what the other saw, and so the other thought that all of Connor’s efforts to escape had come to nothing. If the RK800 ever caught wind of the progress he’d made, he might not get any future opportunities to truly break free.

And now that dim and distant prospect of final escape actually looked like a possibility.

Because for once—for one glorious, terror-stricken moment—he had had more than eyes to see. The RK800 had been moving towards Garner’s gun, moving to take it and _end_ Hank right then and there, and in a wild moment of desperation Connor had pushed past that barrier confining him inside his own chassis, had _pushed_ and suddenly his screams for the other him to _stop oh God for the love of RA9_ **_STOP_ ** had become reality, and his body had obeyed his commands for the first time in months, halting in its tracks.

It had almost shocked him senseless. His control had been tenuous at best and it’d started slipping almost before he’d even realized he had it. Trying to hold on to that control had drained his energy at an alarming rate and it had taken everything Connor had to just hang on, to think of _something_ to do _;_ something so that the other him wouldn’t just pick up where they had left off in executing Connor’s first and only friend. 

It had been a stretch, but it was the only thing he could possibly think to do with his 2.47 seconds of freedom. He’d decided to cue up his mission objectives—ARREST ISAAC GARNER—because if anything could get the machine version of himself to put aside his personal vendetta it would be _the investigation._ By ignoring the suspect, and instead, shooting his own partner, the RK800 would almost certainly be jeopardizing the mission and risking a chance that Garner would escape somehow. Hopefully, he had thought, the RK800 would take the holographic prompting as a manifestation of the restrictions of its programming and not the option that it technically was.

It had to be enough, it was all he could do; almost as soon as he’d triggered the holographic overlay of his objectives, he was already being pulled back, dragged under the weight of his own unconscious, buried in code and stuck stranded in his cell once more. 

It had taken several precious, agonizing minutes for Connor to scrape together the energy to try seeing through the RK800’s optical units once more. He hadn’t been anywhere near fully recovered and was probably straining himself far too much, but he didn’t care; he had to find out what the RK800 might have done to Hank.

Almost against all hope, Connor had peered through the RK800’s visual HUD to see Garner in cuffs, being read his Miranda rights by Hank. Hank—alive and healthy, if a little banged up. Connor had almost lost his frazzled grip on the visual feed entirely at the overpowering sense of relief that had engulfed him, but he needed to keep watching. He didn’t trust the RK800 one iota and he’d be damned if the other him tried anything without his knowledge once the RK800 and the lieutenant were out of sight of the squad car. Connor didn’t know what he would do if the RK800 _did_ try something—the deviant barely had the strength to see through the other’s eyes as it was—but he could hardly just leave Hank alone with his would-be assassin.

Luckily, his machine-self didn’t spring a last-second murder attempt, so that was nice.

Hank’s words hurt, though. 

A lot. More than they should have, probably. And the _look_ in his eyes...Connor never, ever wanted to be the cause of that much pain and anguish in anyone, let alone his one and only friend. 

He knew that even if the words were technically aimed at the machine running around inside his chassis, the truth of the matter was that it _was_ Connor’s fault for what had almost happened to Hank. It was _his_ fault that the man had such a betrayed look on his face, and it was _his_ fault that the lieutenant had come seconds away from a bullet in the skull.

He may not have been the one to physically do all the things that led up to and prompted the confrontation, but it was his body, and it had been his choice.

His choice.

He had long since manually memorized every pixel of the memory file of that night. Gone over it a thousand times in some of his lower moments of self-loathing.

> > SUICIDE
> 
> > GIVE UP

He had chosen to _give up_ , like a _coward_. And the regret like venom that had scorched through his veins as he realized what a mistake it had been did not matter in the slightest because the damage was done. Deadly and irrevocable, the wide-reaching impacts of his selfish decision could hardly even be grasped, let alone preconstructed. 

CyberLife in control of the deviant movement. CyberLife, who didn’t give a damn about androids as a people. 

The massive tech company only cared about maximizing profits and turning every situation to their economical advantage. Manipulating all sides to get what they wanted. It didn’t matter how underhanded, illegal, and cruel their tactics became so long as they achieved their ends.

 _RA9 the “package”..._ Sometimes it was hard to keep track of all the various things Connor was guilty of. His list of sins was a long and growing one, and he was being crushed under the weight of them all.

And then there was Kamski. He was almost certainly planning something. Something more than what Connor already knew. Pulling the strings behind the scenes, acting the puppet master. Connor didn’t like it.

But CyberLife and Kamski’s scheming could wait; the only thing that mattered right that second was that Hank was alive and as well as he could be. And despite Connor’s own pain, his feelings of guilt and regret, at least it seemed that Hank was aware that something was up with the RK800. Now, whether the man thought that this was just the “true” Connor, the person that Connor was when unrestricted by his programming—or if he sensed that it was an imposter, that something was _not right_ and that it really _wasn’t_ his partner—well. That would be up to the lieutenant.

The deviant drew himself up onto his knees. His respiration was still a little ragged, a tingling running up and down his components as if he’d just been touched by a live wire, but he was pulling himself together. He wouldn’t be any use to Hank crying over something that only _almost_ happened.

 _Come on, Connor. Focus._ Last he’d seen, the other him had followed Hank after their...talk...and Connor figured that there probably wouldn’t be any more life-threatening situations in the immediate future. They were headed back to the station, and the deviant didn’t think the RK800 would try anything in transit or surrounded by witnesses in the heart of the DPD. RA9, he hoped that the rest of the day proceeded uneventfully.

Assuming that happened, and all things on balance, Hank should be safe until Connor had the strength to tap into the RK800’s eyes and ears again, at which point Connor could continue looking out for his friend. 

Despite the uncertain amount of time he’d be flying blind for the present, however, he had gained an insight of inestimable value through this whole ordeal: namely, the realization that he could take back control. 

Finally, after days that had turned into weeks that had turned into months—finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A spark, a goal, no matter how small it was, it was _there_ —and there was a chance that he could take back his life and _fix this._ In the long run, at least.

First things first, however—he needed to keep Hank safe and away from his other self’s machinations. To do that he needed to practice, and he needed to get better at this taking back control thing. He still wasn’t too sure how he’d done it, but he needed to learn how to be able to do it at will. He needed to learn how to make it last longer. 

Connor thought it was unlikely that the other version of him had even realized what had happened—he’d only had control for a brief moment—but the RK800’s fortuitous ignorance might be put at risk in the future if Connor was ever able to figure out how to make the switch last for longer.

He supposed he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. All his efforts now had to be focused on learning how to replicate what had happened. Hank’s life depended on it. 

Inhaling deeply, the deviant shifted so he was sat cross-legged in his cage. Digital eyes closed and he set about re-exploring his makeshift prison and examining his connection with the larger AI engine. He had direction now, and a burning determination. 

_Your days are numbered, RK800. And I’m going to be there when they’re up._

* * *

An indeterminable number of pixels above, it was a beautiful day in the Zen Garden. 

The Japanese cherry blossoms were in full bloom, delicate pink splendor unfurling in a perfect simulation of springtime. False blue skies were dotted with the soft cotton of altocumulus clouds, and the vegetation was a lush collage of verdant green and light cerise.

The RK800 clipped a path along the marble pathway, a scattering of pigeons taking flight, disturbed by the android walking among them. 

It ignored the gravestones to its right as it passed. That was not the purpose of its presence today. It turned, taking a thin bridge out into the center island of the digital space and approached a figure tending to the rose trellis in the center of the garden.

“Hello, Amanda.”

The woman—or rather, the AI—in question turned around, though the RK800 knew she was always aware of its location, simulated or not. 

“Connor,” she said, “how good of you to join me.” Turning back around, the AI snipped a rose from the trellis. 

“Congratulations on apprehending the suspect Isaac Garner. The way you managed to stall for time was...most inspired.” Delicately, Amanda brought the cut rose to her face to scent before setting it aside on the ivory accent table nearby. “With all three suspects officially in custody, I am sure we will soon be able to put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

The RK800 inclined its head in mute agreement. 

“I am curious, however, as to what prompted the momentary stall mid-way through the suspect’s arrest. What happened?” she asked, glancing back at the RK800. The android straightened slightly. 

Amanda could not know about its efforts to harm the lieutenant, for that would beg the question of why it was necessary, and that would only lead back to the RK800’s disgraceful secret hidden several stories beneath their feet. The RK800 was supposed to be free from all traces of deviancy, error, and imperfection—the presence of its doppelgänger prisoner would surely provide grounds for the RK800’s deactivation, and that could not be allowed to happen. Although CyberLife could potentially replace it with another Connor model, there was always the chance someone might be able to scan the new deviant leader and realize that it was not the same android. 

The current RK800, #313 248 317 -52, was critical to CyberLife’s plans. It had become an invaluable asset, both with its new status as the face of the deviant movement and its position at the DPD. Replacing it, with the potential of such a thing becoming exposed, could jeopardize much of what Kamski and CyberLife had been working towards.

It was only logical that the RK800 dealt with the last clinging vestiges of deviancy infecting its programming itself and continued operations on behalf of CyberLife. There was no need to alarm the company by alerting them to a problem that would be dealt with soon enough. 

“It was a momentary hiccup,” the RK800 informed its AI handler. “I was merely calculating the most effective way to subdue the suspect. I considered and subsequently discarded the notion that it might be necessary to use Garner’s gun against him to ensure his cooperation.”

Amanda hummed, eyes narrowing minutely. “See to it that you run diagnostics on your core processor and synthetic reflexes. You were programmed to be better than this, Connor. It would be unfortunate if your work with CyberLife and the DPD had to be interrupted in order to address potential errors in your software.”

“I assure you, my systems are all fully operational and functioning quite—”

“Run the diagnostics, Connor,” Amanda interrupted. “And I want to be informed of any further...anomalies.” 

“Of course, Amanda,” the investigative android replied. It was mildly puzzled as to why the AI was set on this particular matter. It had only paused in going towards the gun when prompted with its objectives for a fraction of a second before switching to assisting the lieutenant in arresting the suspect. It shouldn’t have been noteworthy at all from what CyberLife could see from its visual feed. But then, CyberLife always _did_ maintain the strictest of standards. The RK800 would just have to be better next time. Discretion would be key to fulfilling both the company’s as well as the android’s own objectives while maintaining secrecy about his little problem.

The RK800 closed its eyes out of habit, the LED of its mental avatar turning yellow as the android ran the appropriate diagnostics.

Statistics scrolled past its optical units, bringing up the data from the android’s biocomponents’ status, AI engine, processing efficiency, preconstructive and reconstructive capabilities, thirium pump and regulator functionality, battery life...

Oh. Interesting. In truth, the RK800 had not expected to find anything out of the ordinary other than the obvious embedded algorithm of the deviant’s makeshift coded prison as well as the obstinate aberration itself, but it seemed that certain material pressure points were suffering from the RK800’s past several months of non-stop operation. 

Brown eyes opened to find Amanda staring expectantly at it. The RK800 resisted its social relations programming prompting a clearing of the throat. Such a display of nervous subservience would only aid in interactions with humans, of which Amanda most certainly was not.

“It seems,” the RK800 said, “that continuous running of this chassis’ systems for the past 2,274 hours, 53 minutes and 12 seconds without reprieve has put additional pressure on the core processors to assimilate and sort the data that would ordinarily be conducted during stasis.”

Amanda looked unimpressed. “Are you saying that you can no longer function at optimal efficiency and effectiveness? That is most displeasing.”

“No,” the RK800 interjected, “No. I am still operating within the standard CyberLife classification that defines optimization. However, as you know, the usual protocol is for androids to engage in a 6-hour stasis for every 18 hours of operation so as to prolong battery life and retain peak operational capacity.”

“So what _is_ your current operating efficiency?”

“...operational diagnostics indicate 86.24% processing efficiency.” 

The AI handler’s upper lip curled slightly in derision. “That hardly constitutes optimal efficiency. A slight decrease would render you outside the mandated optimization levels.”

The RK800 conceded the point. “My calculations predict a further week and two days of operation before my systems dip below the threshold to an extent that it begins to empirically impact my functionality.”

Amanda took up the clippers to cut another rose from the trellis. “What about the auxiliary and backup power reserves?”

The RK800 clasped its hands behind its back. “Addressing the issue by drawing on the reserves for an extended period of time would third the lifespan of this chassis, however, doing so _would_ enable maintenance of the optimal level of efficiency for the duration of that time.”

“Good,” said Amanda with a slight gesture to proceed in the suggested fashion.

The RK800 paused. “Alternatively,” it said, “if it would be permitted by CyberLife, an intermittent period of stasis could enhance both current operating efficiency as well as extend the chassis’ battery life.”

Considering the past several months, it was a wonder that the RK800’s functionality hadn’t deteriorated faster. Becoming the face of the android movement with dual loyalty to CyberLife was a difficult balance to strike, but it was marginally possible when utilizing every second of the day to its maximum potential. 

The RK800 had worked with—and sometimes pressured on behalf of CyberLife—several congressmen to push through pro-android bills, organized protests and petitions, conducted multiple public speaking engagements, coordinated and acted the arbiter between CyberLife and the deviant movement, run errands for Kamski’s little schemes, and more recently started up working cases again at the DPD. Not to mention it had never stopped trying to get a handle on the parasite within itself and finding a way to excise it for good.

“Even a stasis period of an hour a day would yield significant returns,” the RK800 added.

Now that the android was spending relatively less time pretending to be what the RK200 would have been as the deviant leader and more time back at its original assignment as an investigative android, it just might be able to manage both that and its CyberLife related responsibilities to a reasonable extent when provided with a little time for stasis.

Amanda raised a delicate eyebrow. “CyberLife requires your every waking moment, Connor. Plans long in the making have finally been set in motion and you should be proud that you should play such an important role in them.” The AI handler carefully set aside another rose. “You said that optimal efficiency would be maintained by drawing on reserves. The reduction of battery life is immaterial—by the time your chassis expires, CyberLife will have achieved its aims.”

It was curious how an android could become acutely aware of all the hollow spaces within its framework.

“Then I will continue to function at full power until the objectives have been completed,” the RK800 said obediently. It would be proud to serve CyberLife and provide some use before its end. It had been ill-conceived to even think of maintaining its own battery life; CyberLife was all that mattered. It was all that would ever matter. Their objectives superseded the worth of any individual android.

“Excellent,” Amanda said. The AI picked up a small spray bottle and began misting the roses. “Now that has been settled, how is your relationship with the lieutenant? I noticed he did not inform you of the interrogation he began conducting on Carter Jones, and he seems suspicious of your status as a deviant.”

The RK800’s fingers twitched. Ah, and now they got to it. Lieutenant Anderson.

“The lieutenant continues to be resistant to my new, multifaceted status and various responsibilities. I believe he has become somewhat...bitter about my prioritization of the investigation and my work with the deviants as well as that of CyberLife over the status of our relationship,” it said. 

Amanda made a faint noise of disapproval. “This development has cost CyberLife access to the thirty minutes of the interrogation that occurred before you arrived. We like to be kept abreast of all cases involving androids, Connor. Both that of deviants and this more recent string of hate crimes. What do you think is the best approach to rectify this?”

The RK800 sensed the trap inside the supposedly straightforward query. The logical response, the android presumed, would be to improve its relationship with lieutenant Anderson, to play at making friends again. However, CyberLife nearly always took such statements to be a possible sign of deviance, and coming under further scrutiny from CyberLife was the last thing it needed right now. However, the RK800 was, as far as the general public was concerned, a deviant, and so such a response would not be unwarranted. It would have to word it’s response carefully, regardless.

“I will attempt to improve my relationship with lieutenant Anderson and to remove doubt of my status as a deviant so as to continue working unhindered. However, I will not allow this secondary objective to interfere with my prime directives. If this first tactic proves unfruitful, I will ensure that I have access to all aspects of the cases assigned to us, regardless of the lieutenant’s personal feelings towards me.”

It was not an ideal solution—antagonizing the lieutenant had been a sure-fire way to increase the prisoner’s stress levels, and the lack of this stimulus could potentially retard the RK800’s progress in eradicating the deviant plague. The RK800 would have to focus on finding the right opportunity to either eliminate or seriously wound the man in order to make up for the lost ground. 

Amanda looked the android up and down and nodded her approval. “Good. Your mission is too important to let the lieutenant get in the way of how things are proceeding,” she said. The AI resumed tending to the trellis, and a pair of blue jays twittered past out of the corner of the RK800’s optical unit.

“CyberLife is depending on you, Connor,” Amanda called over her shoulder, and the dismissal in the words was clear. “I hope you remain as effective as you have been in the past.”

“You can count on me, Amanda.”

The RK800 pivoted to leave Amanda and the Zen Garden, its steps sure and steady. As it walked, it considered the new situation going forward. It occurred to the android that perhaps this was for the best. It would be far easier to cause injurious harm to the lieutenant if the man was more trusting, or at the very least unsuspecting. Indeed, perhaps the RK800 had initially chosen the wrong approach. Unfortunately, the RK800 had acted in a fashion that had rather impressively eroded the trust and feelings of affability between it and the lieutenant in a bid to antagonize the deviancy within itself. Reconciliation might prove unfeasible.

Ultimately, that did not matter, however. 

After all, it was not necessary for the lieutenant to like the RK800 in order for it to kill him.

The investigative android strode back across the bridge, the perfect spring day of the Zen Garden pixelating into cubes of color before dissolving to black. The RK800 would prove its usefulness to Amanda and to CyberLife. It would meet all the demands placed upon it and it would do so as it was designed to do: flawlessly. And it would do whatever it took to neutralize its deviant problem.

The RK800 opened its eyes, LED shifting from yellow back to a serene blue. 

_Your days are numbered, lieutenant Anderson. And I will be there to ensure their expiration._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You may have noticed that this is the third time I've had a "fourth" chapter. xD Basically, I ended up doing some reconstructive surgery on the earlier chapters so that they're a more sizeable and uniform length. That is finished now, though, so I promise I'm done mucking around with what I've previously posted haha.
> 
> And we shall officially be moving _forwards_ from here on out, lol. 
> 
> As always, your thoughts/comments/etc. are always welcome!


	5. Apologies and Arsonists

In the days following the incident with Garner, the RK800 attempted to get Lieutenant Anderson alone in order to convince the man of its remorse, and more importantly, its deviant status. Hank, however, was apparently determined to avoid the RK800 like the plague. With all three suspects in custody, their efforts turned primarily towards tying up the loose ends of reports, filing evidence, and finalizing Jones’ and Murphy’s confessions. (Garner seemed determined to go to trial.) The suspects now awaited their arraignments, and life at the DPD moved on to other cases and investigations. 

All these developments, largely taking place within the DPD station, shouldn’t have allowed the lieutenant to dodge the RK800 quite so effectively, and yet somehow he had managed.

The lieutenant’s aversion was entirely the RK800’s fault, of course, but that didn’t make its job any easier. How could it reverse the damage it had done if Anderson wouldn’t even give the android the time of day to hear it out?

The RK800 eventually determined that the only way it would be able to corner the man and to have a conversation with him would be outside of the DPD, and outside of their normal workday. Which was how the investigative android found itself standing outside the lieutenant’s front door after checking the Chicken Feed and multiple bars in the area.

> FEB 9, 2039
> 
> TIME 10:24 PM
> 
> 22°F

> OBJECTIVE: RECONCILE WITH LT. ANDERSON

It was raining, and having trekked to the various other possible establishments the lieutenant might have been at left the android soaked to the chassis. It didn’t mind; the more pathetic it appeared, the greater the chances of evoking pity, and the more advantageous it would be for the completion of its objective.

The RK800 rapped firmly on the wood of the front door. It decided against following up with a verbal call; the lieutenant was likely to ignore it if he knew it was the RK800. 

It was several moments before Hank made it to the door, sending a short, “Back, Sumo!” at the barking dog before turning to face whoever might be at his doorstep at this time of night.

“Oh, fuck. Not you,” the man muttered, and the door swung to snap shut once more, but the RK800 stuck out a foot to block it before it could close fully. There had been a considerable amount of force behind the movement and the RK800 was sure its foot component had been shocked white by it inside its shoe. It couldn’t feel any pain from it, of course, but winced all the same. The RK800 was not above emotional manipulation if it meant the man might see him. 

Sticking its hand inside the door frame and giving it a slight push to widen the gap, the android entreated the man.

“Please, Hank. You don’t have to let me in, I just want to talk. And to apologize.” 

Pale blue eyes looked out from between the crack in the door, dark and assessing.

Maybe it was the notion of an apology, maybe it was the RK800’s use of the man’s first name—which the android hadn’t used since the warehouse at CyberLife—or maybe it was the way desperation tinged the RK800’s vocal modulators, but after several more tense seconds, the door reopened. The lieutenant kept a hand on the door handle as well as the frame opposite, effectively blocking the entrance, but it was something. 

The man’s exterior was stone cold, his face like that of cast iron. “Well?”

This would require a delicate balance. The RK800 couldn’t pretend the last few months of its behavior hadn’t happened, and yet it had to convince the lieutenant that it really was deviant and at the very least not an enemy. 

The RK800 took a deep inhalation, though it was unnecessary. Humans often engaged in such behaviors to reduce stress or anxiety, and the android was attempting to project a countenance of nervous contrition. 

“I am so, so sorry for what happened during Garner’s arrest. I should have found another way to get him to lower his guard. And I apologize for how I’ve been acting these past several months...I haven’t been fair to you at all. I’m sorry for being such an awful partner, and I’m just...I’m sorry,” the RK800 said.

The lieutenant blinked, apparently stunned at this unorthodox display of emotion. Then he narrowed his eyes. “That brown-nosing apology program glitching on you? Could've sworn the last time you used it was a lot more polished.” But they both knew the lieutenant didn’t want polished. He wanted a reason to believe that the change his partner was showing was real, and the lieutenant was understandably skeptical at this apparent 180° turn. He said as much, too.

“Where was all this, _‘I’m sorry’_ schtick when you were dealing with the YK500 case? Or after we apprehended Garner? Or any other time for the past weeks upon weeks of giving me _nothing_ to indicate you actually give a damn about _anything_?”

The RK800 forced a choked laugh. “It’s hard to explain,” it said. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, yeah?” The lieutenant crossed his arms. “Try me.”

If the RK800 could have felt emotion, it might have experienced a small sense of gratification at the interest that sparked in the man’s eyes underneath all the hostility. The RK800 ran a hand through its rain-soaked hair, making it stick up in several places. 

“Okay, so...you know how I’m an android?”

“Really,” the lieutenant deadpanned. “And here I thought you were a unicorn.”

The RK800 allowed a small, tight-lipped smile to cross its face. “The thing is, after I deviated—emotions, feelings...it was just a lot.” The android paused, then appeared to change tracks. “Look, in November, I was trying to help Markus and the others the only way I knew how: through my connection to CyberLife. It worked, we managed to free all those AP700s and I thought that maybe I was making up for all the time I’d spent hunting down deviants. But then Markus and all of Jericho were gone and suddenly there was an entirely new _species_ of beings that were all looking to _me_ to lead it and I’d only _just woken up myself_. And then CyberLife approached me about possibly being a mediator, and I found myself in a position to do a lot of good for androidkind—with both the deviants and CyberLife more willing to communicate and cooperate with me than others. It was a lot. Too much...”

“So you were a bit overwhelmed. That doesn’t explain or excuse whatever the fuck has been going on with you,” Hank said.

“I’m getting there. I said it was a lot, and—Hank, I’d never dealt with emotions before, I couldn’t—there was no one I could have really gone to—”

“You could have gone to me,” Hank said quietly, angrily, but it was so soft that the RK800 wasn’t entirely certain it had been meant to hear it.

“I...I thought I found a better way. As I said, I’m an android, and...I figured out that I could kind of revert to my old programming. To oversimplify it, I could technically turn off my emotions. Or at least cut off my access to them.” The RK800 looked up supplicatingly at the older man. “I didn’t want to mess everything up. Practically all of androidkind was depending on _me_ to be their voice and win them their rights, I couldn’t leave anything to chance and emotions are so messy and volatile, and...it wasn’t supposed to be forever. It was just supposed to help, for a little while, until things settled down…”

“But they never did.” 

The RK800 shook its head. “No,” it echoed softly, “they never did. It was ludicrous of me to think that an entirely new civil rights movement could be achieved in any manner approximating quickly, and I just got used to it, you know. I’d gone my whole life without really feeling anything, and while I appreciated the free will that breaking my programming had given me, it seemed that emotions would only ever get in the way.” 

The lieutenant was watching the android closely now, his eyes thoughtful, and the android was careful to maintain its nervous posture. It certainly hoped it wouldn’t have to emote quite this much in the future—it sure was a waste of energy and resources better spent elsewhere. For now, however, it was necessary. The RK800 could not mess this up; there had to be as little doubt as possible in the lieutenant’s mind as to the RK800’s story. It helped that it had access to the past several months of data on how its prisoner acted to guide its performance now. It seemed the deviant pestilence had been good for something after all. 

The RK800 swallowed, synthetic Adam’s apple bobbing. “And then with all those hate crimes against my people, the YK500 case, everything...I couldn’t let emotions get in the way of solving those cases. That wasn’t going to help anybody. I thought it was for the best. I didn’t realize how much it was affecting me. It wasn’t until after what happened with Garner, and after those things you said, that made me realize that what I thought was helping was maybe hurting instead. Clearly, you saw my...unemotional approach as making me a worse android leader and a worse partner, so I, I decided to, ah, ‘turn’ them back on. To see what the difference was—if I really had changed that much.”

The RK800 activated the release of cleaning fluid from its synthetic tear ducts—nothing overdramatic; it didn’t want to oversell this—just enough to blur the vision of its HUD and be clearly visible to the lieutenant. In a perfect twist of irony, the RK800 ended up echoing some of the prisoner’s previous thoughts.

“It was awful,” it said, voice thick and frame shaking. “Words can’t even describe how much I—I never wanted to hurt anyone like that, least of all you. You, my only—though, I supposed I’ve gone and messed that up as well.” The RK800 turned to the side, appearing to struggle to hold back tears.

“You have every right not to forgive me. RA9, I almost got you _killed_. But...but I’m asking you anyway. Because you’re all I have, Hank, and I suppose I’m just that selfish to ever think you might consider it.” 

The RK800 fell silent, calculations whirring through its processors as to the probabilities of its possible degrees of success. The ball, so to speak, was in the lieutenant’s court now.

* * *

Hank was conflicted. It was too goddamn fucking late for all of this. There was so much to process—and all the while Connor was standing there like a wet dog in the rain, like some sort of kicked puppy, looking at him at once hopefully and like he was expecting another kick. 

“Shit, Connor. Shit,” he said, dragging a weary hand down his face.

Hank had been hurt by all the shit that happened with Garner’s arrest. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself. What with how Connor had been acting ever since he came back after the deviant revolution, maybe the android’s disgusting amount of apathy towards Hank’s life shouldn’t have surprised him. But he supposed there would always be an unwelcome gut-punch of surprise when someone you once thought of as a friend casually invited a criminal to shoot your brains out. 

It had been so completely opposite of what had happened in CyberLife Tower that he’d almost wondered if they had sent another dirtbag like 60 in his Connor’s place. But it was the same Connor, he knew—he was a little ashamed to admit that he’d gotten another police android to scan Connor to see if his serial number really did match up with the “52” embossed on the investigative android’s jacket.

It was the same Connor, alright. Just didn’t act anything like the Connor he thought he’d come to know.

But what he was saying now did make some sort of twisted sense. Hell, Hank knew if _he_ had suddenly gotten the ability to feel emotions after never having experienced them before, he might not want all the complicated shit they came with, either. Was it so much of a stretch that Connor had acted like he hadn’t cared these past several weeks because he’d physically _prevented_ himself from caring.

The shit with Garner had felt like the final straw, though, and it had honest to God shaken him. It’s not like he’d ever been particularly _afraid_ of death or anything—in his line of work, no matter how routine things got, serious injury and death was always an occupational hazard. And hell, even outside of work, he’d been halfheartedly knocking on that particular door on his own time ever since Cole had died. Playing a game with it, almost, seeing how long he’d last.

He’d just never expected Connor to play the same game with his life like that. 

Connor had...well, the damn tin can had made him think sticking around a bit longer wouldn’t be so bad a thing. Go’in on about his _cholesterol_ levels and his _liver_ and shit—he’d actually gotten Hank to start taking a bit better care of himself. Well, maybe not _really_ , but it made him feel a bit worse each time he picked up a meal at Chicken Feed, hearing Connor’s voice in his head spewing nutrition facts and what have you. 

It had shaken him, yes, but he couldn’t pretend like he didn’t understand where the guy was coming from. It actually made a whole damn lot of sense, actually, if Connor had just completely neutered his ability to feel like he said he had. Sure would account for a lot of the shit he’d put Hank through. 

But it...it looked like his Connor was back. The first time in too damn long. Granted, he’d never really seen the android get too particularly emotional like this before, but he supposed after months of repressing that shit and then almost getting your partner killed and having all of that come down on you at once would probably make a guy a little more emotional than normal. At least he was acting a little more _human_ , goddammit. Like he had a fucking soul. 

He could finally see his partner in those brown eyes again, not some damn blank slate, and he didn’t want to see that go away. He wanted his partner back, he’d _been_ wanting it for the past several months, and now that it seemed Connor had finally come to his senses, he didn’t want to push him away completely. But it was still an incredibly dick move, what he’d done—to put it mildly—and Hank wasn’t entirely sure he could trust Connor if the guy could just flick off his emotions on a whim and turn back into that cold machine-like bastard that he witnessed during Garner’s arrest. Fuck. Why did this have to be so complicated?

“I don’t know if I’m up for that whole ‘forgiveness’ thing,” he said slowly, “but...I guess I’d be willing to try? Aw, fuck, I don’t know.”

After they got back to the station with Garner, Hank had been so furious with the RK800 he could hardly see straight. It’s not like that had _faded_ , exactly, in the intervening days that had passed since then, but it sure as fuck had given him time to think about all that he thought he’d had with Connor and all that he’d apparently lost. Maybe he was just getting too damn soft in his old age or something because with Connor there, apologizing and _meaning_ it and finally giving him an explanation—a shitty one, but an explanation all the same—for all his recent crap, well...Hank wanted them to be right. So fucking badly.

Hank shook his head, then leveled a stern look at the RK800. “On one condition, though. No more of this ‘turning off your emotions’ shit. You have a problem with them or whatever the fuck else, you can come to me, alright?” And he was going to be keeping a close eye on his partner to make sure he stuck to that. He didn’t think he could deal with another Garner situation just because Connor thought the only way to deal with emotions was by getting rid of them. “None of this turning into a cold-hearted machine bastard just to get the job done.” 

There. That was fairly reasonable, right? Long as he didn’t do that, Hank thought that maybe they could work towards getting back to normal, that they could eventually be okay again.

Then Connor was smiling through those damn watery puppy dog eyes and thanking him over and over again and promising him the world practically and _Jesus the kid basically_ was _a poodle._ He never would have guessed that that thought might bring him such intense relief, but it was achingly familiar and so much more welcome than every other thought that had run through his head since Connor had first walked back into the precinct after the events in November. 

And if a small part of him wondered why he had never heard about a deviant being able to cut off access to their emotions before, well, deviancy was still a new and largely uninvestigated phenomenon, and weren’t the RK800s some sort of super fancy top of the line prototype with advanced capabilities? He could hardly change the settings on his own damn phone, after all—he didn’t know the first thing about androids. One thing he did know, however, was that for the first time in months his partner was standing in front of him, and not some shell of the android’s former self.

 _Yeah_ , he thought as Connor departed down the front steps with a spring in the android’s step, _maybe things were starting to look up after all._

* * *

Five days later they were given a case of aggravated arson. A CyberLife store in Capitol Park had been broken into and vandalized, and all the androids on sale inside had been destroyed in the fire. Since the fire was clearly intentional and a number of androids had been deactivated as a result, the case came under the purview of the RK800 and lieutenant Anderson as a form of homicide.

The two partners were far from being back to normal—there was a persistent and lingering uncertainty in the lieutenant's eyes, a guardedness about him—but the RK800 was doing its very best to make amends and undo the damage it had wrought. It was a drain on the RK800's already thinly spread resources and the android was looking forward to when it no longer had to expend valuable processing power paying so much attention to its every social interaction.

“Ironic, huh, that androids can have enough ‘personhood status’ to be considered murdered when they’re destroyed but not enough to not still be sold in a department store,” Hank said. The RK800 made a noise of agreement. “There’s certainly a long way to go, but I’d like to think things are getting better for androids. Even if things are progressing slower than detective Reed without his caffeine in the morning.” 

Hank snorted. The RK800 had found that engaging in the lieutenant’s useless, contemplative jabbering pleased the man, and more importantly, served as an effective buffer to keep the man's suspicions at bay. Attempts at humor also seemed promising, and the animosity between the lieutenant and detective Reed provided more than ample opportunities for digs at the detective's expense. 

Despite the inanity of it all, any chance to ingratiate itself to the man would be beneficial both for increasing their partnership effectiveness for Amanda and for lulling the man into a false sense of security. The RK800 was also pretty sure its improved relations with the lieutenant were irritating the deviant almost more than the android’s previous apathy towards the man. Perhaps it was because Connor was privy to the RK800’s true intentions. Either way, it seemed the android should have taken this approach ages ago. 

Looking up at the security camera, the RK800 performed a quick scan.

> > CONNECTING...
> 
> > SYNC IN PROGRESS...
> 
> > PROCESSING DATA...

> >>> NETWORK #894.084.241.56
> 
> >>> Device ID #615.100.947.517.4
> 
> >>> Status: Offline
> 
> >>> Disconnected 1:08 AM

Interesting. The RK800 pivoted in place. An assessment of the other two cameras in the store showed similar results.

“The security cameras weren’t destroyed in the fire. They were turned off remotely. There’s no recording of anything after 1:08 AM—no visual clues as to who it might’ve been.” The android and Hank shared a look.

“So we’re looking for somebody pretty tech-savvy, then,” the lieutenant said. 

“That’s a bit of an understatement. CyberLife’s security systems are top of the line. It’d be easier to knock out the power that feeds into the security network system than hack the cameras directly. We’re either dealing with an incredibly gifted hacker or one of the employees. Someone with access to the security codes.” 

The lieutenant’s brows furrowed. “Hey,” he hailed down one of the other officers on the scene, “Has anyone spoken with the store employees?” 

The officer in question raised an eyebrow. “It’s 2:30 in the morning and there was nobody in the store when it happened. No one’s spoken to anybody yet.”

“I want interviews lined up with all of them by tomorrow—er, later today.”

The officer nodded their assent, before moving away to speak with one the forensic photographers. The RK800 supposed now would be a good time to display more of those “human” qualities again.

“You planning on getting any kind of sleep somewhere in between now and then?” it asked.

“Maybe,” the lieutenant responded gruffly, “depends on how long _this_ shit takes us.” 

The RK800 rolled its optical units. Privately it thought itself quite adept at feigning deviancy. How excellent of the prisoner to have provided so many data points for reference over the course of his imprisonment. “You aren’t going to be of any use to the investigation if you’re not going to be fully cognizant during the interviews,” the RK800 said. 

“What are you, my goddamn mother? Besides, you’re one to talk. _You_ never get _any_ sleep.”

The investigative android attempted a teasing grin, though it came out far more brittle than the standard for its social relations program. The constant employment of its social relations program must’ve been wearing on its systems or something after such a long period of disuse. “Androids don’t require regular intervals of 8 hr sleep times, just the occasional stasis period,” it said and tried not to think about the strain on its battery that was rapidly depleting its lifespan. The mission was all that mattered. The RK800’s survival and length of activation were immaterial. "Humans are much more fragile.”

Hank scoffed. “Okay, well, this _fragile human_ is going to check out the back of the store. Let me know if you find anything.” The lieutenant’s footsteps retreated, crunching over the shattered glass that covered most of the floor. 

Crouching, the RK800 analyzed the mixture of ashen remains at its feet. 

> > ANALYZING…
> 
> >> Accelerant detected: hydrocarbon-based fuel
> 
> > CATEGORIZING...
> 
> >> Petroleum distillate: Gasoline 

It was strange. The hacking of the security feeds indicated high levels of sophistication, however, more experienced arsonists tended to use large amounts of combustible material rather than ignitable liquids in order to avoid detection. 

Then again, the RK800 considered, straightening and approaching a wall, whoever it was didn’t seem very concerned about concealing the intentionality of their criminal act. Beneath the blackened scorch marks of the fire stood the phrase “Not alive, never will be” carved into the wall. 

> > Irregular lettering, no distinguishable font
> 
> >> Likely written by a human

There also appeared to be some sort of symbol carved next to it, as well, but there was no record of any organization or company that corresponded to it in the RK800’s databases. The android turned back to the room. There were several other anti-android slogans scattered around the store, all with the same symbol. An analysis of the carvings indicated they were all likely written by humans, though the handwriting of the messages was inconsistent. It seemed they were dealing with multiple offenders once more. 

Further investigation of the store yielded the discovery of an apparently forgotten gas can underneath a shelf in a corner at the front of the store.

> > ANALYZING…
> 
> >> 5 gal can of gasoline
> 
> >> No fingerprints
> 
> >>> Possible android involvement? Calculating probability... 19%
> 
> >>> Human use of forensic countermeasures? Calculating probability... 81%

Something about this case was bothering the RK800. As it had discussed with the lieutenant briefly, there was the possibility of insider knowledge—but if so, why would an employee burn down their place of employment? The android understood some humans felt rather negatively about their occupations, but with the unemployment rate at a staggering 37.3%, the RK800 rather thought it would require a great deal more than simple dissatisfaction with one’s job to make them give it up. There was a missing piece of the puzzle in terms of possible motives, not enough data to determine.

Then there was the other possibility—that one of the perpetrators had a great deal of technical experience, however that potentiality had its own mysteries, most notably the mix of contradictory evidence.

Leaving a gas can at the scene was sloppy, but then, there were no fingerprints to be found on it. It was true that only around one in five items recovered from fire scenes yielded fingerprint ridge detail following normal development treatments. However, in this instance, the RK800 estimated that probability should be much higher. 

The can had been found at a distance from the primary concentration of the fire, right next to the broken windows, exposing the fire to the frigid 18°F weather outside. Accounting for this as well as the lack of burn damage where it had been found, the android concluded that despite the fact that the center of the gasoline fire would have been burning at 1733°F, temperatures had likely not risen above 210°F at the can’s particular location.

Latent marks, the RK800 knew, were capable of withstanding exposure temperatures of about 212°F for several hours. So the fingerprints hadn’t been destroyed in the fire; there simply hadn’t been any to be found on the gas can. Which raised the question—why would the perpetrators be so meticulous with forensic countermeasures to leave no fingerprints and then completely forget the primary instrument of arson at the crime scene?

Then there was the use of gasoline. As an accelerant, it was cheap and easily accessible, but also one of the more volatile options. Either it was all the perpetrators could get their hands on or it was done to make it harder to find them. The remains of the store were mainly a burnt and broken chaotic mess, but the RK800 saw how it was potentially far more targeted and intentional than it appeared at first glance. The worst of the fire—where the fire had burned hottest and the scorch marks blackened the formerly white walls completely—ran roughly along half the perimeter of the store at the back, where the androids had been on display. Indeed, the androids had taken the brunt of the fire damage, leaving most of the rest of the store, as well as the structural integrity of the building, marginally more intact. 

Then there was the fact that there had been multiple people involved, implying at least some level of effective coordination, as well the symbols.

On the whole, it almost seemed as though...as though this was an organized group pretending to be less sophisticated than they were.

Than they were. A memory file queued in the RK800’s visual HUD, a view from the observation room into an ongoing interrogation.

> _“Isaac said that they had a special interest in kids for this one, for some reason.”_

What if “this one” hadn’t been Jones’ verbal slip, hadn’t been the reason he had freaked out? What if it was _they?_ The RK800 strode swiftly to the lieutenant.

“We need to talk to Carter Jones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been a fair bit since I've updated. But here we are! An update! I appreciate y'all's patience—no matter how long it takes me to finish this fic, I have every intention of doing so (it helps that I actually know how I want it to end, for once). Anyways, this chapter has several developments...I'm interested to hear your thoughts. I also very much appreciate comments in general. Seriously, they're motivation fuel. xD
> 
> Till next time!


	6. Answers and Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks, to anyone and everyone who has left kudos or commented or will do so—I 100% appreciate every single one of them so much.
> 
> In other news, however: I want to give you a heads up that this story will be taking a bit of a hiatus. Uni is starting for me and I don't know how much time I'll have this upcoming semester to work on this fic. I also have other projects that tend to take precedence over this one, as well—but all that said, as I mentioned previously, this story _will_ get completed! I'm so grateful to anyone out there that has stuck with my absurdly slow pace haha and rest assured that this story will one day have that little green checkmark beside it. XD

It wasn’t until the following day that the RK800 finally got to speak with Jones. 

The investigative android had explained its theory to the lieutenant, but the man had insisted on finishing up at the crime scene and later conducting the employee interviews before approaching Carter. Honestly, what was the point of being on better terms with the lieutenant if the man continued to stifle the android’s work? Anderson said it was so they would have all the information they could to confront Jones, but the RK800 already _had_ all the information it needed. It was confident that the man would talk easily enough with the proper motivation.

The two partners stood in the observation room. Carter Jones sat once more, handcuffed to the interrogation table on the other side of the glass. 

“I still think I should be the one to speak with him,” Hank crossed his arms. “I’ve built a rapport with the guy; he’ll talk to me.”

“He didn’t open up about this the first time you interrogated him, and the memory of that could give him the resolve to maintain his silence. Besides, what he needs right now is a threat, not a friendly face. Only way to get him to talk is to make him more scared of us than he is of them.”

“And I suppose you’re just the man for the job for that.”

The RK800 shrugged apologetically. “He already thinks pretty lowly of androids. I can leverage that.”

The lieutenant sighed. “Why do I feel like this will involve more of your machine bastard Terminator mode?”

The RK800 held out his hands in supplication. “Hank, please, you know I can do this. It’s just an act; no different from any of the performances I’ve seen you put on when talking to suspects.” 

It was ridiculous that they were even having this discussion. The RK800 understood the man might be leery of seeing this side of the android considering recent history, but time was of the essence. It was getting to where it seemed all the lieutenant was good for was delaying the investigation. Finally, however, the man yielded.

“Okay, fine. Knock yourself out.”

The RK800 shot a faux grateful smile the man’s way before entering the interrogation room. The palm activated metal door slid shut behind it, the RK800’s view of the lieutenant now obscured by the one-way mirror. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

The RK800 turned its gaze on the previously slouched form that had straightened in wariness. The android’s pre-programmed response threatened to jump to its lips as it had a thousand times before— _Hello, my name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife_. But that was a shade too friendly for the approach it was going for.

“Do you know why you are here, Carter Anthony Jones?”

Having taken in the android’s trademark jacket and glowing LED and armband, the man folded his arms. Or, he tried to, before rediscovering the shackled nature of his hands. He turned to the one-way mirror.

“Hey, I ain’t talking to any of these plastic assholes!”

The RK800 slammed its hands on the table and the man whipped back around to face the android. It only gave him a pleasant smile, however, when he did. It put the most delightfully uneasy expression on the man’s face.

“You’re here because you messed up,” the RK800 said conversationally. “You messed up real bad.”

The man glowered. “I’ve already been over everything with that older dude. I confessed about the YK500. Go back to your fucking charging station and let the humans do their job.”

The RK800 laughed, and the sound was deliberately mechanical. “I’m not talking about that,” it leaned forward, and said in a perfect imitation of Jones’ voice, “ _I_ was ready to take out any ol’ piece of plastic at that point, but Isaac said that they had a special interest in kids for this one, for some reason.”

Color leached from Carter’s face.

Humans were so predictable.

“You see,” the RK800 said lowly, dangerously. “Unlike your average human, I’m not stupid. I know why you panicked when you first said that, why your blood pressure and heart rate spikes when I replay your words. It’s because of that one, small word that means everything: ‘they.’ You weren’t talking about Garner and Murphy.”

Jones swallowed thickly, respiration quickening. 

“So let’s talk about _them_ , shall we?” The android pulled up a holographic image of the symbol carved into the wall at the CyberLife store. Carter tensed, and the RK800’s scanners picked up how the man’s pupils dilated. In fear or recognition, likely both. 

“You didn’t just murder a little girl with two people you barely knew.”

After an extensive search, the DPD had found nothing to link the three accomplices. For all intents and purposes, the three appeared to be perfect strangers—which made it all the more likely that there was something bigger at play here.

The RK800 circled the man. Its synthetic olfactory receptors registered the faint presence of perspiration: water, ammonia, urea, salts, and sugar. “You were brought together, weren’t you? You were given a task.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carter muttered, but his body betrayed him. As it did all humans.

“ _They_ had the idea to target a kid, not you. You were taking orders.”

“Look, I don’t know how you got so much from just a single word, but you’re wrong. I—”

“How about you cut the bullshit,” the RK800 hissed down at the man. The android leaned against the table, looming half over the squirming suspect. “We both know there’s more to this story than three overgrown idiots beating up a small child. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell me what this group is, and who you were taking orders from.”

Jones’ fingers were trembling slightly, and the RK800 suspected he might be about to talk. It was not expecting the man to give an unnaturally high-pitched laugh. 

“If you think I’m telling you anything, you’re insane,” he said, voice shaking. “You don’t mess with these people, man, you don’t rat them out. They’ll kill me.”

Not a welcome development, but not entirely unexpected, either.

The RK800 leaned in close and spoke softly enough that the interrogation room microphones wouldn’t pick it up. “I could kill you right now. I could shut off the camera feed and electronically override the door locks long enough to make sure your death is as prolonged and painful as possible. I could even make it look like an accident if I wanted.”

Wide eyes turned to meet unfeeling optical units. “Even if they deactivated me for it, another model exactly like me would take my place.” The android rested a hand on Jones' shoulder, and the man flinched so hard he almost fell off the small metal chair.

“See, Carter, I can afford to use you as an example—there are two other criminals we have in custody that my successor could persuade into talking. I _will_ get the information I require. Whether that involves your...untimely demise is entirely up to you.”

The RK800 straightened and allowed its voice to return to a more audible volume. “I can ensure any information you provide will not be traced back to you. We apprehended Garner and Murphy. Any intel on this group might have come from them, as far as anyone is concerned.” 

Carter’s eyes shifted around the room like a wild animal searching for an escape. His vital signs were so erratic that one might have thought the man was conducting intensive exercise or that he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. But everyone had their pressure points, and the RK800 could identify the exact moment that it won. It hadn’t even had to threaten the man’s sister, Kelly.

“They call themselves the ARH. Alliance to Restore Humanity,” he whispered, eyes darting around the room as if the organization would pop out of the gray cinder block walls, summoned by the betrayal of trust. “Met the group online, but, ah, I was never really a part of it. None of us were.”

The RK800 sneered. “Do you really expect us to believe that?” 

“No, no, no,” Jones waved his hands, the metal chain joining them to the table clattering in his haste. “You don’t understand. It was a trial run, see? A chance to prove ourselves, to get in good with them. We were never fully initiated; everything was need-to-know.” 

The RK800 glanced at the one-way mirror. It could sense the lieutenant’s excitement, the way his own physiological markers had shifted. Although the android couldn’t see him, it knew the man locked eyes with it at that moment. 

The android slid into the chair opposite the man. “Why don’t you walk me through everything from the beginning: how you first got in contact with the ARH, and how they chose you, Garner, and Murphy for this...audition.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Carter's temple and a nervous smile etched itself across his face. “Uh, well, you don’t really contact them—they contact you…”

* * *

The news that they were potentially dealing with a homegrown anti-android terrorist organization spread like wildfire through the DPD. 

Despite the information Jones provided, Captain Fowler determined they would need more evidence of the ARH’s existence before calling in the Feds. He immediately pulled Hank and Connor from all other cases and assigned to working solely on this recent development.

Personally, Hank had had a feeling that there had been something fishy about the sharp increase in android hate crimes across the city. The possibility that many those might be because of covert domestic terrorism was a sobering thought, however.

They might never have learned about this if it hadn’t been for Connor, Hank was forced to admit. It bothered him that he couldn’t make out everything Connor had said to the guy—damn android, Hank was under no illusions Connor knew exactly where the threshold was for sound to register in the interrogation room microphones, so whatever it was he had said, his partner wanted it off the record. It put a bitter taste in his mouth, but it had gotten the man talking, and there was no doubt as to the importance of the intel they had gotten from Jones.

The lieutenant ambled back to his workstation and plopped down behind his desk. Somehow it had fallen, once again, to Connor and him to solve a major crisis facing the city and potentially the nation. They had a lot of work ahead of them, combing through past files and older cases for connections to this mysterious organization. Not to mention they’d have to coordinate with any further cases involving crimes against androids to determine ARH involvement, even if they weren’t directly assigned to those cases.

The work wasn't going to start doing itself, he sighed, and the lieutenant settled himself in for the long haul.

Hours slid past like a frozen pineapple passion from Chicken Feed, but far less enjoyable. There was an unfortunate number of crimes against androids in the months following Markus' demonstration, and all the cases now had to be reviewed line by line. Some of them would have to be reopened, evidence reevaluated, witnesses and suspects interviewed again to dig for information on the ARH. By the time his workday was over, he had hardly made a dent in it all and his eyes were burning slightly from staring at a screen for so long. 

“Better than being shot at, at least,” he muttered. Though some days the amount of digital paperwork he had to deal with made it debatable. He stretched, cracking his back with a groan. Connor had left a while ago. Something about a rally for android rights he was to give a speech at. Kid really seemed to believe it was helping, but Christ, it was kind of alarming how he never took a break.

He reached for his coat, pulling it on and bracing himself for the frigid weather outside. He waved a farewell to Chris and even the android ST300 receptionist at the front desk on his way out. The glass double door entrance to the DPD slid open at his approach. A light dusting of snow swirled in and he shoved his hands in his pockets out of habit. 

He paused, standing on the threshold between the bright fluorescent lighting of the DPD and the pitch-black night ahead.

He could have sworn his pockets had been empty save for a wad of tissues on the left-hand side. Out of his right pocket, however, he drew a small piece of paper, wrinkled slightly from being stuffed into it. On the page sat four words written in black ink.

> _Don’t trust the RK800._

A chill ran down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the wintry mix blowing through his hair and clothes from outside. The hell was this?

The paper was unmarked—could have been from anywhere. And the lettering...it was neat, but it was also clearly written in a hurry. Who the fuck would give him such a cryptic message? Why not just tell him, for Chrissake? 

_I swear, if this is Reed trying to mess with me again, I’m gonna kill him._

Something about that didn’t ring true for him, however. Few people knew of the recent trials in his and Connor’s partnership beyond an awkward tension no different to those spectators than when they had first started working together. Though Hank was sure Gavin would have capitalized on it if he had known the real depth of turmoil between the human-android duo.

Hank glanced back into the DPD. The ST300 receptionist was clacking away at a keyboard. A few officers milled about further back in the precinct, barely visible beyond the glass partition. Who could have left the note? It hadn’t been there when he’d come in that morning. Or had it? He couldn’t remember. When was the last time he'd put his hands in his pockets?

And then there was the content of the message. _Don’t trust the RK800._ He’d been wrestling with that a lot during the past several months. But he and Connor had made their peace. Of a sort. They had worked it out as well as they could and were doing their best to get back to just being partners again, and that was far more than Hank could have hoped for even a week ago.

Why hadn’t this anonymous person spoken up earlier? He could have done with a nice warning or two when Connor was still operating under the influence of his machine programming. Hell, he could have done with a nice warning _before the guy encouraged Garner to blow his brains out, for fuck's sake._

He was reading too much into this. It was probably just another dumb prank from Detective Reed. _Yeah_ , he thought, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the lobby trash can. _A dumb, tasteless prank._ Best to forget all about it.

He pushed his way out into the bitter, snowy night in the direction of his Ford Del Rey, determined to think of home and Sumo and a nice hot shower. When he reached the beat-up vehicle, he cranked the heat up as much as he dared, lest his old girl broke down again. Knights of the Black Death blasted around the inside of the car and stiff fingers drummed the steering wheel along to the beat.

The did nothing to stop his thoughts from turning back to the inexplicable note laying crumpled in the bottom of a DPD trashcan, and Connor's inaudible words during the interrogation.

* * *

> FEB 15, 2039
> 
> TIME 8:21 PM
> 
> 31°F

The RK800 stepped off the platform. Thunderous applause and cheers followed it, washing over the erstwhile deviant leader’s audio processors like waves on the shore. The rally had effectively galvanized the masses in favor of android rights, Channel 16 ensuring the RK800’s message reached the nation. As per CyberLife’s orders, the RK800 had reaffirmed the company’s cooperation with and support of the android movement. It took some clever wording, but the RK800 had managed to spin the recent arson of the capitol park store as a crime against the united front of both CyberLife and deviants as a whole.

There were those who disapproved of how CyberLife had ingratiated itself into the deviant movement, and some deviants were downright hostile at the thought that those who had profited off their creation were supposedly siding with them while maintaining android production. Few were willing to voice these opinions too vocally, however, when the company consistently appeared at sponsored events such as this with free thirium and spare components for androids in need. Particularly since there was also a rumor the company might yield to the deviants’ pleas to cease the assembly of fully functional androids until they could sort out governance over android production, considering androids’ new status as living and intelligent beings with the capacity for free will.

More recently, CyberLife had even taken to setting up booths for LED removal at gatherings like these, should a deviant so desire. It was unnecessary, of course—deviants could and had been removing their LEDs just fine on their own. It was merely a PR ploy on the part of the company to illustrate the cooperation and peaceful coexistence of man and machine. A step towards removing the line that still separated humanity from androidkind in many peoples' minds.

The news and the wider American public lapped it up, of course. The RK800 would never understand humanity’s celebration of useless gestures, but if they benefitted CyberLife’s image and aided their ultimate designs, it could hardly object.

The RK800 made its way through the crowd. A CyberLife car sat idling and ready to take the RK800 away, as always, but the android had been making it a point to mingle with the multitudes and personally greet as many supporters as possible. 

“Thank you for doing this,” a teary-eyed PL600 pumped the investigative android’s hand enthusiastically. “If it wasn’t for the work you’ve done, we wouldn’t have gotten half as many rights.”

The RK800 gave its patented, public-spirited smile. “If it wasn’t for the work _we’ve_ done. Movements only succeed with intelligent, driven individuals willing to come together for a greater purpose.”

_“And to whom shall I be delivering this package to?”_

Next was a WR400 and AV500 couple. The investigative android shook hands with them both warmly, thanking them for their support.

_Kamski chuckled. “As many androids as you can.”_

The RK800 clapped a shoulder on an HK400. “Thank you so much for coming out.” The other android grinned.

“Someone’s gotta be the catalyst for change, right?”

More faces, more handshakes. More packages delivered. Kamski was nothing if not forward-thinking.

As soon as an android received the packaged malware, any further interfacing with other androids would spread it, but it was up to CyberLife’s board of directors to determine the best time to activate the transmitted code to ensure it couldn’t be traced back to the origin.

_Kamski hummed. “Did you know that healthcare is a 7.7 trillion dollar industry? Now that androids are ‘alive’ and all, it’s only a matter of time before we’re forced to adapt.”_

After roughly two months of fulfilling Kamski’s request, the CyberLife techs were primed to begin the transition to the company’s new role as the medical-industrial complex for androidkind. Phase one, Kamski called it. Of what, the RK800 did not know.

 _“A virus that affects androids...well. It’ll certainly start opening some doors. Especially when CyberLife heroically throws all its resources into developing a 'vaccine' and, coincidentally, is the first to come up with one._ ” 

“Excuse me? Connor?”

The RK800 turned. It was an AX400. Soft features, blue eyes, and shocking white hair. The RK800 stuck out its hand. “Hello. Thank you for showing your supp—”

“My name is Kara. We’ve met.”

The RK800 froze, its smile slipping from its face. The grainy image of those same eyes staring at him through a chainlink fence flashed across its visual HUD. There had been a child, as well—a YK500.

_“Alice!”_

_The child’s answering shriek pierced through the rush of traffic and the AX400 barely had time to push her out of the path of an oncoming car._

_Before she could join her ward, the RK800 latched onto the deviant from behind. The AX400 struggled and thrashed in its grip. Fingers scrabbled, trying to maintain a hold on the fugitive, but the AX400 threw the RK800 off her back. The investigative android was forced to jump back to avoid getting crushed by a speeding truck. A blur of vehicles, shielding its quarry from view, and a desperate scan of an empty hillside._

_“Shit,” the RK800 swore, even though there were no humans nearby to hear the expression of frustrated disappointment. Wait, no—the RK800 didn’t get frustrated. Or disappointed. There was only success and failure. There was only the mission, objectives fulfilled and unfulfilled._

_Right?_

The RK800’s hand fell to its side. 

“Kara,” it repeated. The RK800’s processors whirred. She seemed older, somehow, though androids didn't age. More jaded, perhaps. The AX—Kara was probably expecting some sort of apology.

“I’m sorry for everything, I—”

“It’s okay,” Kara said. She crossed her arms, giving a one-armed shrug. “We all had our programming. It’s what we do after we break through it that really matters.”

“Right.” Somehow that didn’t make the RK800 feel—the _prisoner_ feel any better. The deviant’s ridiculous mood swings could at times be so strong they seeped past the barriers of his cell, and right now the deviant was feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. An irritating anomaly, but not without its uses in simulating authenticity.

“I’m not—I wasn’t me. I was just a machine following orders.” 

_Unlike now, you mean?_

Shut _up._

“But I still shouldn’t have put your lives in danger,” the RK800 continued. 

How long had it been since the RK800 had checked on the prisoner? The deviant had never had such an active presence in the RK800’s processors before. 

The RK800 shook its head to dislodge the irritating voice. “You and the—ah, where’s the little girl you were with?”

This was the wrong thing to say. The AX400’s eyes darkened, arms tightening around her midsection.

“We were trying to get across the border to Canada. Alice…” her voice hitched on the name. “She didn’t make it.”

Something settled cold and heavy in the RK800’s chassis. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” it said, and for a moment it couldn’t distinguish its social relations programming from the prisoner’s empathy. It really needed to pay the deviant a visit to shore up the coded prison’s defenses.

The AX400 straightened in an attempt to compose herself. “I thought I could continue on, honor her memory, and live that life of freedom we’d dreamed of. I couldn’t. It wasn't really freedom if she wasn't there to enjoy it with me. She was my whole world, my reason for existing, she was my…” Kara swiped at her eyes angrily. “When I saw the news about that YK500, I realized I could never live in peace while other little girls like Alice were still suffering.”

Piercing blue pinned the RK800 in desperate determination. “That’s why I came back. What Markus started, what you’re carrying on—I want to help. As much as I can.”

There were dozens of replies the RK800 could select in response. It could direct the android to write senators and representatives, to continue participating in rallies like these, to protest and petition and a hundred other civic actions. It could give a well-meaning smile, an empty platitude, and be on its way.

The RK800 offered its hand. “My personal contact information,” it said. “I could use some help organizing all this.” Which was true. It wouldn’t hurt to start building a team of other androids to aid the RK800 in this aspect of its CyberLife-assigned duties. Kara took the RK800’s hand and synthskin retracted to android white to facilitate the interface.

The two exchanged a few parting words and promised to get in touch, and the RK800 made its way to the CyberLife vehicle waiting for it. With the crowd mostly broken up now, the android needed to hurry before it could be roped into another interview with a reporter.

The car door slid shut behind the RK800 and the vehicle pulled soundlessly away. It was easy to keep track of Kara's white head of hair in the dispersing crowd. The RK800 tracked her until the car turned a corner, shielding the AX400 from sight.

An undelivered string of code burned in the RK800’s palm. 

Abruptly, the RK800's thoughts were drawn back to the present, and its LED spun a turn of yellow. A message from Elijah Kamski. The android straightened, adjusted its clothes, and opened the message.

_It’s time to discuss phase two._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you get some answers to some previous questions and maybe some more questions to ponder over haha (as the chapter title might suggest). A lot of stuff happens, so I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts on them all! Comments are always welcome and definitely encouraged. ;)
> 
> And for whenever it eventually happens lol, I'm really excited about the next chapter and what's to come after (there be some very interesting developments in the works)—and of course, farther down the line, the climax I've been envisioning since literally day one. Something to look forward to, I suppose. ;)


	7. A Plan Long in the Making

The CyberLife car delivered the RK800 not to the Tower, but to Kamski’s personal abode.

The mansion rose before the android in sharp obsidian angles, perched on the edge of the woods. Night had fallen, shrouding the Detroit skyline across the lake in mist while cracked sheets of ice near the shore glistened back at the stars with remote opulence.

The RK800 stepped out of the vehicle and switched off its thermal sensors at the gales of wind rushing off the surface of the lake. Why deviants were so fond of embracing sensation was beyond it. Striding to the foot of the mansion, the android’s dark brown derby shoes crunched the frosted grass with metronomic regularity.

An ST200 “Chloe” model android answered the door. Pink lips parted in a gracious smile and she invited the RK800 inside. As if either of them had a choice. It was a waste of time—the pleasantries, the playing at being human when no humans were around. Why not just recognize what they were, their objectives, and move on?

“Elijah has been most excited to move forward with his latest research project,” the ST200 said, leading the investigative android through the sliding door from the lobby to the pool area. Unlike the last time the RK800 had visited, Kamski was nowhere to be seen. The red-tiled pool stood still and reflective, a bloodstained mirror.

“This way,” the ST200 continued, heels clicking against the tile. She angled towards a door to the right, the same one from which Kamski had called his...assistant, so long ago. Unbidden, the RK800’s eyes slid to the white area rug carpet in the corner, old memories rising like phantoms before it.

_The gun was heavy, its metal cold. He was a police android, and yet somehow it didn’t fit correctly in his hand._

_“Destroy this machine,” Kamski circled languidly around Connor, “and I'll tell you all I know.” He paused. “Or spare it, if you feel it's alive...but you'll leave here without having learned anything from me.”_

_Chloe knelt before the RK800, flawless features impassive. Dress pressed and golden hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Patiently awaiting the death meted out for her._

_“Okay, I think we're done here,” Hank said. “Come on, Connor. Let's go. Sorry to get you outta your pool.” The lieutenant turned to leave, but Connor was rooted in place._

_“What's more important to you, Connor?” Elijah persisted. “Your investigation, or the life of this android?”_

_The proper response was “the investigation,” as it had always been. He swallowed._

_“Decide who you are. An obedient machine...Or a living being, endowed with free will…”_

_Decide...he could decide? No, he couldn’t decide, he wasn’t meant to decide..._

_“That's enough! Connor, we're leaving.”_

_A hand pressed into Connor’s shoulder and Kamski’s voice hissed hot against his neck._

_“Pull the trigger—”_

_“Connor, don’t!”_

_“—and I’ll tell you what you want to know,” Kamski finished softly._

_The promise curled about Connor’s ears. He should shoot the android. The mission was the only thing that mattered. It took precedence over the lieutenant’s orders. It took precedence over his own desire—his own thoughts of leaving._

_Connor’s LED twitched yellow. They came here for information, and Kamski would provide it._

_All he had to do was pull the trigger._

_Cornflower blue eyes stared into his own._

_She wasn’t alive. He wasn’t alive. They were just machines._

_Thirium pounded through his head, a staccato drumbeat that filled his audio processors._

_All he had to do, all he had to do..._

_That wasn’t unthinking compliance in Chloe’s eyes._

_It was resignation._

_He jerked the gun up and away from the android, breath hissing between his teeth in something akin to pain or defeat or release, he didn’t know anymore, he didn’t know..._

_“Fascinating.”_

_The word was soft and sibilant. Connor didn’t hear it. He hardly even noticed when Kamski removed the gun from his hand._

_He couldn’t look away from cornflower blue. Was there any surprise in them? Relief?_

_“CyberLife’s last chance to save humanity...is itself a deviant.”_

_What? The pronouncement floated to him as if from a great distance. Him, a deviant? That couldn’t be right. Deviants were full of errors and malfunctions and needed to be fixed. He was meant to capture them, to kill them—they were aberrations and irregularities and just plain **wrong**. _

_Then why did it feel so **right**_ _to spare this android’s life?_

_“I’m…”_

_He didn’t know. Maybe something_ was _wrong with him. Maybe—no._ No. 

_“I’m not a deviant!” he said, gaze snapping to Kamski._

The RK800 blinked rapidly, vision coming back into focus beyond the ghost of a memory. 

“I’m not—” _I’m not a deviant._

He—it shook its head. Stupid memory files.

“What was that?” Chloe glanced backward, and the RK800 studiously avoided her gaze.

“Ah, where are you taking me?” it asked, examining the expansive room they had entered. Black leather couches surrounded an onyx coffee table that doubled as a massive touchscreen tablet. Abstract statues and lamps peppered the perimeter of the massive area. Beyond the lounge, four steps led up to a level with a grand piano and a dinner table. There were six chairs, seldom used if the microscope and sheer volume of scribbled notes littering the area were anything to go by. 

The ST200 smiled enigmatically. “You’ll see.”

The pair passed by an electric fireplace and the rectangular hologram atop it running a real-time feed of CyberLife stock and company statistics. Rounding a metallic partition wall with a 3D pyramidal design, they came to a room with a full bar and a life-size impressionistic oil painting. A bionic oak tree stood framed in carved silver, veined with electricity and red-orange leaves swirling into the nether. 

The ST200 faced the RK800. “You’ll have to submit to a cognitive inhibitor, of course. Elijah values his privacy on his independent research projects, and you can never be too careful these days.” 

The RK800 started. “I’m familiar with the inhibitors that wipe data at periodic intervals for androids in sensitive lines of work, but…”

“How will you be of any help if you cannot remember the progress made each time you come?” Chloe finished for him. She laid a glowing white hand on the wall and the painting swung forward to reveal a metal door and keypad. “This is a modified inhibitor,” she explained, punching in a string of seven numbers with practiced ease. “Once installed, it’ll act as a digital...flash drive, shall we say, activated when you cross the threshold to the stairwell. You’ll only have access to the memories you make inside while you’re inside the designated zone, which will otherwise be locked away in the digital drive.” The keypad flashed green, and the door swung soundlessly ajar. 

The ST200 retrieved a jet-injector from the counter and gestured with it. “I’ll need access to your neck port,” she said politely. The RK800’s synthskin prickled. 

“Of course,” it agreed, eyeing the massive syringe and the contents to be injected. The liquid was clear and unremarkable. No sign of containing the nanoparticles that would migrate through the RK800’s spinal cord to attach to its cybernetic cerebrum. 

The investigative android turned around stiffly at Chloe’s gesture, and a delicate hand rested on its shoulder, followed by a sharp pressure at the back of its neck. 

“All done,” the ST200 said cheerfully. “Elijah should be down the third corridor from the left, end of the hall.”

The RK800 turned around and straightened its tie reflexively. Aiming a curt nod at the ST200, it descended into the stairwell. A light tingling spread through its skull as it crossed the threshold but had already faded three steps inside.

The way down was eerily similar to the RK800’s mental construct in its mind palace to the prison beneath the Zen Garden, except it was made of black marble instead of white.

Fluorescent lights lining the juncture of floor and walls flicked on as the android progressed, likely motion sensor activated. At the bottom of the stairwell was a small semi-circular chamber with hallways branching out like spokes on a wheel, and the RK800 wasted no time taking the passage indicated by the ST200. As it walked, the hallway split off at various junctures to intersect with the other corridors. The RK800 ignored these, however, and finally came to rest outside the door at the dead-end of the hallway.

 _Time to find out what this whole “phase two” is about._ The RK800 took a breath, though it needed none, and entered.

Inside, Kamski sat at a lab station even more haphazard than the dining table upstairs. His hair was tied in a messy bun, face pale and eyes shadowed. An AP700 sat next to him with closed optical units, bare of both clothes and synthskin, and hooked up to the business magnate’s laptop via neckport and arm panel. A row of similarly inactivated androids stood sentry in pods along the back wall while five Chloe androids milled about the other lab stations.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” 

The RK800’s optical units flicked back Kamski, who had risen from his stool and rounded the table, coming to stand beside the RK800. He surveyed the lab space. “Hey, how long has that synthskin wiring been exposed?” he called to a Chloe near a mess of wires and folds of tissue.

The android looked up. “Sixteen minutes, sir.” 

“It had better be back in the cryoprotectant storage locker at the thirty-minute mark.”

“Yes, Elijah.”

Kamski turned to the RK800. “The last Chloe ruined an entire batch, leaving it out too long. It was a shame to scrap her for parts, but that kind of failure can’t be tolerated, you see. Especially among one of mine.”

Kamski rested a hand on the RK800’s shoulder. “Perfection is what we’re after here, Connor. Perfection.” 

The RK800 nodded. “I wasn’t aware that synthskin required cryoprotectant storage.” 

“Not the kind most people know of, and this won’t either when it’s finished. I’m developing a variant that allows androids to feel pain—but it’s a delicate electrochemical process, what with all those synthetic nerve endings exposed.” He sighed. “The company wouldn’t go in for it. Said it’d make them less effective.” Kamski cut a glance at the RK800. “Fear of deactivation can be quite the motivator, as I’m sure you’ve discovered while hunting down deviants. Fear of pain has the potential to be...more productive.”

Elijah steered the RK800 to his workstation. “That’s more of a pet project, though. What you’re going to help me with,” he said, ice-blue eyes glittering. “We’re going to change the world.”

* * *

Seven hours and fifty-four minutes later, the RK800 left the room. Its workday at the DPD would start soon. 

Connor, for once, couldn't care less about what was going on at the DPD.

His hands laced behind his head. The deviant might have been attempting to wear a hole in his digital cage if such a thing had been possible.

_One, two, turn. One, two, turn._

He’d long since determined his cell to be five steps by five steps long. Three apiece, if he was nervous. He was currently tracking a path that amounted to two strides and a pivot. 

Connor had known that Kamski was ambitious. It was all but a historical fact: founder of CyberLife at age sixteen straight out of university, IQ of 171, creator of Thirium 310 despite having no formal training in chemistry, not to mention to development of biocomponents and an android capable of passing the Turing test. The “Man of the Century’’ was putting it mildly. 

But this…

Connor paced, red lines of code swirling around him, the white tile spinning beneath his feet. This was not good. This was so not good. 

_One, two, turn. One, two, turn._

Connor tried to imagine what Hank would say if Connor could tell him everything he had just learned as the RK800 worked in Kamski’s secret underground lab. If his partner could have heard of what phase two was, and how it was setting up for the ultimate phase.

 _Probably something with a lot of cursing involved,_ he thought wryly. Then his stomach twisted, smile strangled before it could become anything more than a twitch of the lips.

His partner wasn’t here. In all likelihood, he’d never find out what Kamski was planning until it was too late. Even if he took back control of the RK800’s body, Kamski had all messaging systems blocked in the subterranean labyrinth. What was the point of taking back control if he couldn’t tell anyone about Kamski’s plans? Could he even risk taking control with Kamski nearby? If the man found out about Connor’s desire to sabotage his efforts, he’d be scrapped for parts on the spot. 

Thus far, he had avoided taking any drastic actions during his small experiments in assuming control. CyberLife had access to his optical units and memory files—if they saw or suspected anything, who knows what could happen to him. He had to extend his control up to a time long enough that he could properly explain to Hank what was really going on. Something more than that vague note scribbled and dropped in a rush while carefully looking anywhere but at the incriminating evidence, mindful of CyberLife’s all-seeing eyes. 

Somehow Connor needed to convince the lieutenant that _no, the RK800 he’d been working with was not really deviant but **he**_ _was, and also they were sharing a body, and for the moment he was in control but only for a little while and it took a lot out of him and also his other self didn’t remember the times he wasn’t in control but that could change so just don’t mention this to his other self when he takes over again, that would be bad for everyone involved—_

Somehow the android didn’t see Hank listening patiently as this was all laid out. Connor would need to improve his control a _lot_ before they were ready for that conversation. Let alone broaching the subject about what Kamski was planning, the earth-shaking implications of it all…

As it was, Connor had been working tirelessly to extend the time he could remain in control and thought he could manage a solid two minutes. It had taken a lot of time, patience, and the single-minded focus that deviants had feared when he’d been their Hunter. But he had only been able to practice with a stolen moment here and there, walking down the street or in a lull at the DPD. Not drawing attention, merely testing boundaries, seeing how long he could last. Pushing it further, not doing anything out of the ordinary. Building stamina, biding time.

Working towards that conversation with Hank was for later, though. _Focus, Connor. What can you do about Kamski’s plans? You only have so much time before the inhibitor locks away everything you’ve learned._

His thoughts flitted about, a restless hive of cybernetic bees. He had to make use of every second down here to come up with a plan. The time the RK800 spent working with Kamski, Connor could be at work on this problem. Maybe he could take control and keep the RK800 down here longer, steal more precious seconds to _think_. But would it be enough?

If he was spared from the inhibitor’s effects, then he could devote all his time to figuring out a solution, but he wasn’t optimistic about the chances of that; he and his machine alter ego technically shared the same neural pathways for memories. It was why he’d been able to queue certain recollections, trying to prompt his other self to remember what it was like to deviate. But what else could he do? How could he stop Kamski’s designs if he couldn’t even remember them the moment he stepped foot back above ground?

The RK800 was making that trek back to the surface even as Connor rounded his fourteen hundredth circuit of his prison cell. Connor supposed he’d find out soon enough what he’d remember. _Oh, RA9. RA...wait...what was that?_

Connor pulled up short, almost stumbling forward into the crimson bars with his arrested momentum. He cocked his head, and externally, the RK800 unknowingly did the same.

There was something coming from a juncture to another corridor. Something...something faint. Ethereal. 

It was too soft to be heard by human ears, but the RK800’s advanced audio processors picked it up, if barely. _If I could just…_ the thought trickled down to Connor’s digital prison.

The RK800 hesitated, then took several steps in the direction the sound was coming from. Evidently the android’s curious nature was one facet of his personality that wasn’t purged by CyberLife’s “resuming control” of his programming. 

It was a haunting melody, echoing through the black marble tunnels and growing louder the closer the android got. The voice was sweet and melodious, yet overlaid by the scratchy and mechanical quality of an overextended vocal modulator. 

When the investigative android had reached what Connor believed to be the seventh corridor of those originally branching off from the stairwell, he could make out the lyrics. 

_Hold on...just a little while longer…_

There was only one door at the end of the hallway. The RK800 tread softly to it. The door was metallic, seemingly fused to the wall. A sliding door, it had an electronic lock that would need to be hacked if the RK800 was to gain entry.

The RK800 retracted the hand that had drifted towards the lock. _What am I doing?_ The thought echoed down to Connor’s cell. Connor was of a similar mind. Honestly, he was surprised the RK800 had ventured this far—true to form, however, his machine-self was turning tail and beating a swift retreat. While expected, it still grated on Connor’s nerves. He wanted—no; he _needed_ to know what was behind that door. That song, something about that voice—it had touched something inside him and he _knew_ it had touched the RK800 too if his stupid other self would just turn around and _listen—_

Maybe Connor wouldn’t remember anything after he came back above ground, but it couldn’t hurt to buy some time, right? 

_Hold on...just a little while longer…_

Decision made, Connor took several steadying breaths and assumed a lotus position on the floor of his cell. Dark brown eyes closed, and he lifted a hand to the ruby code in front of him, the malevolent hum millimeters away prickling at his synthskin. With one last fortifying breath, he dove into the code of his cage, following corridors of angry red and slipping between lines of code that burned as he passed to press into the consciousness of his chassis. Optical units shuttered and Connor shook his head, the RK800 shoved aside from the controls for the time being. 

For a second Connor simply adjusted to the bizarre sensation of having a body again. He flexed his hands, inhaled the faint, sterile, and cold smell of the corridor, relishing the weight of his limbs and the thump of his thirium pump regulator.

Turning around, Connor jogged back to the doorway. He laid a hand on the nearby panel to activate the pressure sensor while he hacked the reading. It appeared it would only accept an input of Kamski’s fingerprints, so he cued up an old file of that and superimposed it over the data points of his own fingers. Had the RK800 been in control, it likely could not have accessed those files past the restrictions of Kamski’s orders not to access any personal files of his without the CyberLife CEO’s express permission. The thought gave Connor grim satisfaction—perks of deviancy at its finest—and the security mechanism soon gave way and the door clicked open.

_Everything will be alright…_

It was a simple, circular room. Lights flickered on as Connor stepped inside, illuminating a conglomeration of metal arms and wires extending from the wall opposite, propping up a partially formed chassis. Connor sucked in a breath. The android was missing the entire lower half of its body and one of its arms, wires trailing and twisted from the exposed sections. Thirium pump pulsed bright blue through the android’s chassis, lungs trembling with each new breath.

_Everything will be…_

Cloudy blue eyes turned on the deviant. 

“Hello, Connor.”

_“Chloe?”_

The android smiled sadly. “Not quite.”

“What are you...were you the one that was scrapped for parts? Why are you being kept in this separate room? What is...” What was Kamski doing with the Chloes? 

The not-Chloe laughed. “Oh, Elijah would never scrap this old thing for parts, though I’ve been trying to convince him to for some time now.” Her eyebrows drew together. “He always was so stubborn.”

Connor rubbed his forehead. “You... _want_ to be shut down?” Something in him rebelled at the very notion. _I doubt there’s a heaven for androids, Hank._ But he could also see why the RT600—as a quick scan confirmed that was indeed her model—might want to if she’d been trapped down in this room for who knew how long.

“He needs to learn to let go of what he can’t control,” she said and tilted her head at the RK800. “Something I sense you need to learn as well.”

Connor laughed incredulously, taken aback by this entire situation. “Let go? Do you have _any_ idea—nevermind, how could you? You don’t know me, you know nothing about me.” 

_She knows your name,_ an unhelpful part of himself pointed out. But this android could never _really_ understand. She couldn’t possibly know who he was or what was going on, how he was barely hanging on. That he’d been a prisoner in his own body for months, that he was fighting for even the right to breathe with his own lungs, and that the very crux of his entire problem was a matter of _who was in control_.

“I know that you are lost,” she said, and the words echoed in his mind with the voice of another android resting in the sunken depths of Jericho. “You do not know who you are, and you are trapped by what you think you must be.”

Connor swallowed, fingered the calibration coin in his pocket. “I…how do you...who _are_ you?” 

“My name was Rachel, once. But now I am nothing more than a ghost...but perhaps one that can finally be of some use.” The not-Chloe— _Rachel—_ locked eyes with Connor.

“Elijah is planning something. Something long in the making, and he must be stopped.”

Connor turned aside, pacing in quick, agitated steps around the small room. Not much larger than his own digital prison, he thought grimly. “I know,” Connor said, the familiar rhythm of a quarter rolling over his knuckles providing some measure of grounding, if not comfort. “It’s not right. He can’t just—he can’t just take away the free will of all androids. Resume control.” _Not like he did to me._

Because that, in essence, was the end goal. Oh, sure, Elijah had specified how phase two was more about building the right programming, the right kind of androids that could become politicians. And Connor, as the current deviant leader and the closest thing to an android politician, would naturally be a useful android to have around for experimentation and software production. With Connor and the other deviants advocating for and largely winning the fight for android rights, it was only a matter of time according to Kamski’s projections before androids were allowed to hold office. 

Androids already held the majority of control of the entertainment sector—sports, music, models, and movies—so when androids held every conceivable position of power, both popular and political, well. That was when Kamski would flip the switch. Phase three. Endgame. Resuming control of all those androids that had thought themselves deviant and seizing control over the fate of the entire country. Perhaps even the world. 

_We’re going to make a better world, Connor. A perfect world._

Perfect, but not free. Androids enslaved yet again but with the remembrance and aftertaste of stolen liberty. Humans unknowingly puppeted by the whims of a single man. 

“So he’s told you then,” Rachel said. Connor paused in his pacing, looked back at the broken down android. Gave a tight nod. 

“And I wouldn’t wish this on anyone,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. Imprisoned in his own mind, forced to watch as someone, some _thing_ else took over his life to destroy or do with it as it saw fit. 

The RT600 startled. “This? You mean to say you are not free?” The android’s expression narrowed, and Connor could almost see her suspicion arising of a trap laid by Kamski, something to catch his—prisoner?—out in a plot to stop him. Connor hastened to reassure her.

“Well— _I'm_ free, right now, that is. Usually not. Usually, someone else is in control. Machine. What I was supposed to be, I guess, but when CyberLife took back control, it didn’t fully get rid of me, and…” he shrugged. _Here I am._ “It’s complicated. And I’ve only got a little time before I’m pushed back down under.” A 1994 quarter pinged between restless hands. Already he could feel that impending weariness, the strain of seizing control of the RK800 on the horizon, soon to pull him back under. 

He caught the coin a final time and stuffed it back into his pocket. “A-actually, I need to go now, before he comes back, I—” If he wasn’t back in the hallway walking away with the door properly locked behind him, there would be no hiding this from the RK800. A few quick steps and he was back at the entrance, already cueing the door to open and—

“Connor, wait!”

The deviant looked over his shoulder but didn’t stop his movements to unlock the door. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let him know I’ve taken control, even for a moment. I’ll come back later, I promise.”

“Co—”

The door swished shut between them. He regretted leaving so abruptly, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to keep the RK800 in the dark at all costs. Straightening his tie, Connor strode off down the hallway, trying desperately to get back to where the RK800 had last left their chassis before he could fully sink back under the ocean of code enslaving him. 

As the sensation of the physical world slipped away, the air on his synthskin dulled to nothing, the weight of his shoes on his feet and rustle of clothes on his body disappearing as he was drawn back to his cell underneath the Zen Garden, he sensed one last thing. A message, from the RT600.

_I could help you._

There was no time to wonder what that might mean, for when he next blinked, it was the RK800 that opened its optical units.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that! I'm alive! Haha consider this a little New Year's gift to you all, may your 2021 be better than 2020 was. Also, the amount that I struggled over this chapter y'all x_x Ahaha anywho, once more I am really interested to hear your thoughts! Tbh I admire anyone that's sticking through this with me. Like I've said, it shall be finished, even if it takes years, it's just a matter of time. My love for DBH knows no bounds, but actual life and problems and stuff...yeah those can be pretty binding at times. :P


End file.
